


Hooked

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Depression, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, M/M, Mind Games, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock doesn't know how to be people, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's always been an addict, but he's never found an obsession as fulfilling as Moriarty. When the genius threatens to disappear, Sherlock realises he'll do anything to keep that from happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock rarely ate because on his list of things to do, it just wasn’t very important. He choked down whatever John put in front of him and preferred to use their kitchen as a lab. But sometimes when he was tossing a case around in his head and the violin wasn’t helping and John wasn’t helping and there was nothing but glaring questions, he’d put on his scarf and walk until he found a small cafe somewhere. He’d sit with a coffee he was never going to drink and just watch people until the answer fell into his head.

Today it was a tiny greasy place a few blocks over from Baker Street. Sherlock sat in the window seat, back to the door as he scanned the cafe. A waitress who was moderately pretty but wore too much makeup set his steaming cappuccino on the table and grinned. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.” He added belatedly.

She looked disappointed and walked off. Sherlock turned the puzzle over and over. What was he missing? He sat for a while, just thinking, becoming so absorbed in watching the passers-by that he didn’t notice the short man who sat at his table.

“Morning, Sherlock.”

“Moriarty.” The detective kept his face and voice as flat as possible, despite the shock.

“I’m sorry, did I interrupt?”

“Yes, actually.” Sherlock snarked.

He wasn’t really annoyed of course. Moriarty was never an annoyance. He was the greatest puzzle of all, a man Sherlock was rapidly becoming obsessed with as he tried to figure out all the dark twists and nooks of his mind. The hallucination at Baskerville had shown Sherlock just how much he feared Moriarty yet he was still drawn to him. The detective felt a quiver of excitement at being so close to Jim again, so much better than any of his usual cases.

“Are you going to drink that?” Moriarty pointed at his cup.

“Oh no, go ahead.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind. I’m a beast until I’ve had my first cup of the day.” Moriarty grinned in that insincere friendly way and took a sip.

“I had you pegged as more of a tea-drinker. Takes more time, more preparation.”

“I like a bit of ritual, but there’s something to be said for caffeine once in a while.”

“Bit bold, isn’t it? Window seat in full view of the street and any number of CCTV cameras.”

“The Iceman doesn’t worry me,” Moriarty shrugged, “And as fun as he is, I find you much more interesting.”

“I assume your faithful sniper is nearby.” Sherlock said bitterly, remembering that night at the pool.

“Oh don’t sound so hurt, Sherlock. It’s not that I don’t trust you. A man of my profession must take some precautions.” Jim smirked over the lip of his coffee cup.

“There are no other men of your profession.”

“Sure there are. But they work for governments and have fancy titles. People like your brother who set up the dominos and watch them fall.”

“So what’s the set up this time? Have you come to _burn_ me?”

He said it mockingly, but Moriarty didn’t seem to mind. The Irishman set down the cup with a smug half-grin, looking up as he folded his hands on the table with great care. “But Sherlock, I already have.”

“First I’ve heard of it. Care to elaborate?”

“Do I have to? You’re so disappointing when you miss the obvious, Sherlock.”

The detective drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “As my phone has not announced some fatal catastrophe, you have not harmed anyone or anything I might care about. There are no police lining up to arrest me and I myself am not dead, so clearly you’ve opted for something more subtle than an assassin.”

“It’s much better than any of that. That’s child’s play.” Moriarty scoffed.

“So you must think you’ve gotten to me in some other way. How? Your mind games have not made me doubt myself or my abilities. You have not eroded my relationships, few as they are. What can you possibly think you’ve done to me?”

“That’s just it, Sherlock. I haven’t done anything. It was all you.”

“Why don’t you just hold off on the gloating and tell me?” Sherlock said with exasperation he didn’t feel.

“Where’s the fun in that? I like watching you squirm. Like a butterfly being pinned to my board. I wonder what it would take to make you really tremble.” His hand stole across the table, not quite touching Sherlock’s wrist.

“What is this?” Sherlock raised a brow, looking at the delicate fingertips hovering so close to him.

“A test of your resolve perhaps?”

Sherlock pushed his chair back and made to stand.

“Oh no, don’t get up from the game. You’ll lose your seat.”

Moriarty’s eyes pierced his as he hesitated, unsure. He could walk away right now. There was no John with a bomb strapped to him this time. Sherlock didn’t have to play. But Jim’s words taunted him. Lose his seat? Shouldn’t that be a good thing?

“You see Sherlock, that’s your weakness. You can’t resist.”

 

Suddenly the hand clamped down on his wrist painfully, Moriarty lunging over the table so his mouth was at Sherlock’s ear.

“You’ve always been an addict, haven’t you Sherlock? Always craving more, more excitement, more stimulation. You know, I figured it would be cocaine – pep up that brilliant brain.”

Sherlock hazarded a smile. “Too acceptable. Heroin pissed Mycroft off so much more. So wonderfully lower class.”

“But it wasn’t enough. You need something else, and I’m the choicest drug you’ve ever found. That’s how I’ll burn you, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll make you see just how much you need me and then take it away.”

Sherlock scoffed despite the way Moriarty’s whisper made his neck tingle and his arm stiffen under the painful grip. “What, that’s it? You think you can make me need you? Haven’t you noticed I’m not big on people?”

“You need John. You need Lestrade. You even need Mrs Hudson and Molly sometimes, though you don’t like to admit it. I think in your own way you’re very big on people. And ask yourself this: do any of them give you the same rush this little scene has sent coursing through you right now?”

Sherlock fought to keep his face steady. “Adrenaline. Expected response to physical violence.”

“No, no, no, stop thinking for once and use your brain! How do I make you _feel_ , Sherlock?”

The crisp way his name dropped from Jim’s tongue made the hairs on his arm stand up. There was so much malice in that quiet, polite tone. No way in hell was he ever going to answer the question though.

“I’ll let you think about it for a while then.”

The consulting criminal straightened and strode out of the cafe. Sherlock almost twisted in his seat to watch Jim walk away but stopped himself. He started to shake slightly but he didn’t know why. Moriarty’s presence hadn't frightened him– ruthless as he may be, Jim was not going to harm him in public. And he did enjoy facing off against such a skilled opponent for once. Was that it? Was Moriarty right? Did Sherlock...get high off the thrill of the chase?

“Impossible.” He muttered to no one in particular.

He glanced at his wrist and found a bruise already forming, shallow crescent shapes pressed into his flesh.

“Impossible.”

 

He walked back to 221B without having solved his case, head full of new concerns. What was Moriarty playing at, revealing his plan? And a pathetic one at that - there had to be something more. It was a diversion from the real plot to ruin Sherlock. He locked himself in his room and tortured his violin for a day, running over every possible thing Moriarty could do to him and ruling them all out as too obvious. Along the way the answer to his case cropped up and he called Lestrade, but only to spit out a name and a reason and then hang up again.

The next day John knocked, opening the door without waiting for an answer.

“Uh, Sherlock?”

He didn’t respond, just stroked his bow savagely across the strings.

“You alright? Lestrade called and said they arrested someone on your advice.”

He still didn’t say anything, just played a lilting tune.

“You don’t want to know if he confessed?”

“No.”

“Well he did. You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat. I’ve brought you eggs on toast.”

John laid the offering on Sherlock’s bed and stood waiting with his arms crossed. Sherlock played on for a moment before realising his flatmate wasn’t going away.

“What?”

“I’m not leaving til you eat it.”

“I don’t need a mother, John.”

“Don’t you?”

He sighed and laid down his instrument, stomping over to take a bite. “There, happy?”

“The whole thing.”

“This is ridiculous!” Sherlock spluttered.

“Eating is ridiculous? Do you know what you sound like?” John frowned. He turned and started rifling through Sherlock’s drawers.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for your stash.”

“What makes you think I even have one?” Sherlock tried for insulted and only managed petulant.

John turned on him. “Because there are only three things that make you brood this much, Sherlock. Cases, Irene Adler, and falling off the wagon. And since we haven’t seen Miss Adler for months and you damn sure don’t have a new case that leaves door number three.”

“I’m not smoking.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Who said anything about cigarettes?” John retorted.

“Fine, search away! You won’t find anything.”

“Shut up and eat your damn eggs.”

Sherlock reluctantly complied, watching as John turned the room upside down with no success. As Sherlock cleaned the last crumbs off his plate the doctor crawled back out from under the bed, panting.

“Satisifed?”

“I suppose. But you can’t stay in here forever, Sherlock.”

“Fine.” The detective grabbed his violin and bow, tramping out into the lounge room to start playing again.

John sighed and headed upstairs to his room. Sherlock scowled at the strings under his fingers. John thought he was some common user, sliding back into old bad ways, shutting himself off from the world with his addiction. But wasn’t he? He’d thought about Moriarty almost constantly since he last saw the man, obsessing over every hypothetical next move. Wasn’t that exactly the same thing? He rolled up his sleeve and examined the purple spot with its tiny fingernail marks and pushed the skin gingerly, hissing.

“No. I’m not playing his game.”

Sherlock threw down his violin and grabbed his coat. “John! We’re going out.”

*****

Sherlock quickly flicked through all the files on Lestrade’s desk. “Is this all you’ve got?”

“I’m not even supposed to be letting you see them, Sherlock! Sorry if they’re not up to your usual standard.”

“Nothing but boring, rudimentary cases this whole week. Why this week?” Sherlock mumbled.

“What was that?” Lestrade frowned.

“You’d think that with all the business from the website I’d have something to sink my teeth into but no, just torrid affairs and boring murders.” He leaned against the window of Lestrade’s office, staring out at the police working their desks as he rubbed the spot on his wrist. The bruise was long faded but he couldn’t help himself.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m sure there’ll be a new serial killer along shortly. Would that cheer you up?”

The detective inspector’s thick sarcasm broke through Sherlock’s melancholy. He straightened up.

“Yes, yes.”

“You okay, Sherlock? You’re acting a bit...manic. Even for you.”

“I’m fine, just bored. You don’t have any cold cases I could go over?”

Lestrade looked doubtful but waved his hand. “Alright. I’ll get someone to take you down there.”

 

Sherlock followed the perky redhead through the halls to the lift and then down into the basement. The rows of shelving seemed to stretch on forever, most with a big sticker on the front proclaiming they were closed.

“Thank you, I can take it from here.”

She scampered off, looking back at him a touch adoringly, as Sherlock took off his scarf and coat and left them over a desk by the lift. He decided to start with the fresher cases first, ones that might have some witnesses still around to interview and villains still to catch. His heels clicked on the bare concrete as he walked down the aisle, looking for something interesting.

“I’d start with this one. It looks juicy.”

Sherlock spun. Jim stood at his shoulder in a much cheaper suit than he would normally wear, looking as non-descript as possible with those bulging eyes.

“Must you keep sneaking about? You could always call. Something like, Hi Sherlock, want to catch up?”

“Oh please, we both know you love it. Keeps you on your toes. I could be anywhere, any time.”

“Scotland Yard’s a new one. Gutsy.”

“Thought I’d give your friends a look in. Hardly worth the effort - they didn’t even check my ID.”

Sherlock leaned back against the wall of boxes, examining his rival’s face. Jim smiled boyishly, absolutely overflowing with glee at his own brilliance. Sherlock almost wanted to hit him.

“Did you tell Mycroft about our little encounter?”

“No. None of his business, is it?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

Sherlock was silent, staring down at him.

“Just like a junkie, keeping his vices in the dark. I’m almost flattered.”

Sherlock absentmindedly touched his wrist before forcing his hand away. “You’re wrong.”

“Oh, so you’re not down here perusing the dusty old unsolved cases because you’re desperate for a distraction? Jonesing for your next hit?”

“I’m bored. It happens almost constantly. Nothing to do with you.” Sherlock shrugged.

“But you know I could fix it, don’t you? I could make it so you were never bored again.”

For a half-second Sherlock’s breath hitched at the thought. “You can’t even keep yourself entertained.”

“Maybe we could help each other out there.”

And once again, Moriarty was suddenly in his personal space. The smaller man had him pinned against the shelving, one hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Tell the truth Sherlock. I can already see it anyway. You haven’t been sleeping. You seem to have stopped eating altogether. And every few seconds you grab your wrist as if touching it can make you feel the same way you did when I bruised it. I don’t think you’ve even noticed you’re doing it.”

“This can’t be your whole plan. There’s no artistry in it, no shock value! There has to be more.”

Moriarty just smiled infuriatingly. “Shall I give you another remembrance? Something to give you that tiny echo of what you’re feeling right now.”

Sherlock stiffened up, not wanting to push himself away from Moriarty and show how uncomfortable he was, not wanting to stay there in harm’s way.

“Do your worst. It still won’t help with your absurd ‘plan’.”

Moriarty just tilted his head and raised himself on tiptoes, hand curling in Sherlock’s hair. He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s for maybe three seconds, no longer than it took for the detective to feel their warmth and Moriarty’s chest briefly against his. Jim lowered himself gently and winked.

“Be seeing you.”

Sherlock was so stunned he didn’t say a word as the other man walked away. But what would he say anyway? Was he going to put Jim in a headlock and drag him upstairs to drop before Lestrade? Hardly. It wouldn’t do any good. And if a little voice whispered that he didn’t want Moriarty locked away from him, it was lost in the general confusion of that kiss.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening?”

“What?” his head snapped to the side.

John was looking down at him with a fair amount of distress. “You’ve been lying on that couch for three days in nothing but a sheet. As your friend and a medical professional I can’t let you just waste away. Tell me where your stash is.”

“I told you, I don’t have one. It’s-”

But he stopped himself. If he told John it was all Moriarty’s fault, his flatmate would demand to know why he hadn’t mentioned him before. He might even be more concerned. He might try to have Lestrade put Sherlock in protective custody.

“It’s what?” John pressed.

“I just...Irene Adler messaged me.”

“Really?” John’s brows shot up, “I thought Mycroft said she was…in witness protection.”

“She thinks she can get under my skin. She tries to throw me off with affection, tries to provoke desire. It’s a waste of her time.” Sherlock muttered.

“What did it say? Was it...well, a dirty picture?”

Sherlock looked sceptically at John’s blush. “A dirty picture? I think we are past that, don’t you, given that the first time we met she was naked. No, she kissed me.”

“She kissed you from America?” John’s voice got higher with his confusion.

“No, I mean before, she kissed me before and I don’t know what it means.”

“Well it usually means that someone likes you. Was it a good kiss?”

“Barely anything. Few seconds.” Sherlock shrugged, looking away.

“No wonder you’ve been so weird. Come on, let’s go down the pub and you can watch me have a beer.”

“No thank you.”

The old soldier sighed. “Alright. Well I’ll be upstairs if you wanna talk about it.”

He trundled off, leaving Sherlock as confused as ever. Moriarty didn’t like him, surely. He was always talking about wanting to destroy Sherlock. He pressed a hand to his lips, trying to get just the right pressure and failing. He didn’t know why he was obsessing so much over the kiss. There were no fireworks or orchestral background music. Sherlock didn’t feel any physical desire, not really. Irene was the closest he’d come and even that was more about her brain and her pretences. No, it wasn’t the kiss itself that was bugging him. It was Moriarty’s motive. Why had he done it? Surely his big plot to burn Sherlock wasn’t ‘blow his mind with a peck’. It was an unexpected move in their game, and Sherlock couldn’t stand anything he couldn’t make sense of. He rolled himself tighter into his blanket cocoon and thought some more, every now and then patting his lip.

*****

Sherlock and John followed their counterfeiter deeper into the catacombs, chasing the young man around the dark sharp-walled corridors.

“Hurry John!” Sherlock bellowed.

They rounded a corner and came to what seemed like a dead end.

“Great. Now what?” John puffed.

Sherlock scanned the ground, peering into the darkness. “There.”

He took off again without explaining, following the faintest trace of red dust on the otherwise brown floor. They came to the end of the tunnel where it opened up into a decent-sized room before continuing out the other side, well lit with a floodlight. Their forger was kneeling at someone’s feet, shaking, and as they slid to a stop the figure looked up.

“Hi boys! Be with you in a minute.” Moriarty smirked.

Sherlock felt like the room was spinning. Here was a chance to ask the questions that had been burning him up inside for weeks, and he couldn’t say a damn thing with John there.

“Please, sir, please, I didn’t mean-”

“Oh I know. Nobody ever _means_ to. But you’ve certainly broken the terms of our arrangement.” He patted the kneeling man’s head before clasping his hands behind his back and taking two steps towards Sherlock and Watson. A shot rang out and the counterfeiter slumped, falling on his side.

“Jesus!” John doubled over and clutched his knees for a second before straightening up.

“Sorry about that. Business. Now we can get on to more important things.”

“Let me guess. More snipers?” Sherlock glanced at the black tunnel mouth.

“Oh no, just the one. But he’s very good. Weren’t expecting to see me here, Mr Holmes?”

“I guess by now I should just assume you’re behind every crime in London?”

“Why limit yourself? You should assume it about every decent crime anywhere.” Moriarty took another few steps closer.

“What do you want?” Watson demanded.

“Sherlock knows,” Moriarty smiled, “But you needn’t worry. I’m going away for a while.”

“Away?” Sherlock couldn’t stop himself.

“Like jail?” John added hopefully.

“Heavens no, Johnny boy! Just exhausted what London has to offer, going to see what other mischief I can do. I don’t have anything worth hanging around for.”

The line came with a pointed look at Sherlock, one that was part scornful and part disappointed. Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. Moriarty was leaving? He was abandoning the game?

“You think we’ll just let you leave?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock? Will you? Should you?”

The words were a stabbing pain in his head. Sherlock tried to stay composed, but he couldn’t leave this unfinished. “Running away, Jim?”

Moriarty raised a brow, his jaw twitching, but his face stayed smooth. “If you like to think so. But hey, if you start to miss me too much, you could try texting. I might reply.”

He turned and waltzed into the other tunnel, pausing at the entrance.

“Oh, and if you try to follow me? It won’t end well for you.”

Then he was gone.

John visibly relaxed. “Fucking Moriarty. Should we tell Lestrade?”

“Tell Lestrade what? We don’t know where he’s going.”

Watson shrugged. “I dunno, he could try and figure it out.”

“You think Moriarty would be so stupid as to just walk into Heathrow and get a ticket? No, he’s well out of Scotland Yard’s reach.”

“Well maybe we should mention the dead guy on the floor there.”

Sherlock looked at the body, having forgotten all about it. “Oh. Yes, that’s more relevant.”

John held up his phone. “I’ve got no signal here. Let’s go back up.”

They walked back through the catacombs in silence, until they were almost at the entrance.

“What did he mean, you know what he wants?” John glanced over.

“He wants to break me. But he can’t.” Sherlock said, not feeling as sure as he sounded.

“Break you how?”

But Sherlock didn’t answer, just walked on ahead.

 

It was driving him crazy. Weeks went by with no word of Moriarty and no sign he might be coming back. Sherlock should have been relieved for the break but instead he felt cheated. What about their competition? None of the cases that crossed his door in those weeks were half as lively as one conversation with Moriarty. Nobody was clever enough to spark his interest for more than an hour. And as a few more weeks went by, he started to feel like he was forgetting that exhilaration altogether. At least before Moriarty had left him things to puzzle over, to focus on so he could remember the smiling eyes and sing-song voice. Now he was starting to worry that rush would never be his again. He almost considered sending a message and then wrote it off as completely sad and desperate.

“The world does not revolve around Moriarty. I went years without him, I can do it again.”

Sherlock swore it to himself a hundred times, but with each repetition it seemed to lose a bit of its steel, until he was very much afraid he’d seen the last of the tricky consulting criminal and with him, any hope of a challenge.

*****

When he got so bad that he refused to eat and told John there was no point trying to make him, the doctor had him hospitalised. Sherlock was severely underweight and didn’t care, staring at the ceiling indifferently as they offered him food.

“Sherlock, if you won’t eat, they’ll put a feeding tube in you. You want that?” John asked.

“Why should I?” the genius shrugged.

“Sherlock, you have to eat! You’re wasting away.”

He rolled over and faced the window. “Put the tube in then.”

Sherlock slept a lot, drifting in and out of consciousness as his too-long deprived body adjusted to the new influx of nutrients. Sometimes when he woke up there would be someone by his bed, waiting for their turn to lecture him. Mrs Hudson was the worst, tearing up and blaming herself for not keeping him fed. Mycroft didn’t come but there was a young nurse who checked on him one day that seemed very familiar, and he knew his brother was keeping tabs in his own way. Gradually he started to feel more himself, but the extra awareness just made Sherlock more depressed. St Bart’s was as boring as his flat, as the whole of England since Moriarty left.

 

“So they’re saying you can come home later this week, if you’re good.” John said during one of his daily visits.

“Excellent, sent home to be fussed over by you and Mrs Hudson and forced into therapy.”

“Well maybe you need it, Sherlock. It did wonders for me.”

“No it didn’t, I did wonders for you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. The man who could do wonders for him was gone.

“Modest as ever I see. You must be feeling better. I’ll go have a chat to one of your nurses.”

John Watson was a man bred for hospital halls, ghosting out without disturbing anyone. But he’d only been gone for a minute before the door opened again.

“Back so soon?” Sherlock glanced over, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat.

“I’m wounded, Sherlock. Didn’t you miss me?” Moriarty pouted. Today he was in a pair of scrubs, a surgical mask around his neck.

“You’re not real. This is a dream.” Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Believe it, Sherly, I couldn’t be realer if I tried.”

“Why are you here? Why now? Where have you been?”

Moriarty ignored him, perching in the chair John had recently vacated. “I heard you were unwell. Letting yourself starve. And I thought, might that be on my account?”

Sherlock looked away. There was no point lying. Why else would he have stopped eating as soon as it was clear Moriarty wasn’t coming back?

“Perhaps. You might have been right about me.”

“Hmm? How so?”

Sherlock flung his head back on the pillow. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“It won’t be any fun if you don’t.”

“I need you. Without you, life is a pointless, endless droning parade of dull people and easy questions.”

“And what are you willing to do, Sherlock Holmes, just to keep me around?”

Sherlock’s mutter was so quiet Jim missed it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Anything.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He looked up at Moriarty, feeling defeated and broken in that hungry gaze. “Please.”

Moriarty patted his hand. “Good boy. Now I want you to go home with Dr Watson and get back into your normal routine. No more of this not eating business, you hear? Two meals a day at least.”

“What about...what do you want?”

“I’ll let you know when the time is right. Just start taking cases again and we’ll keep up our game, and I’ll give you my instructions later.”

Moriarty leaned over the bed and kissed him, more demanding than the last time but still fairly short.

“You won’t get rid of me again, Sherlock.”

He left and Sherlock could have cried with relief and despair. How could he feel so content and wretched at the same time? The door creaked and he turned quickly, but it was only John.

“I’ve just been speaking to your physician, and he said if I sign off as your primary carer you can go home tomorrow. Isn’t that great?”

And for the first time in almost a year Sherlock smiled sincerely. “Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

Getting back into his routine was harder than he’d expected. Sherlock had neglected the website so long it took a while to rebuild his business, but Lestrade let him come along on some easy cases in the meantime. Everywhere he went Sherlock could feel people watching him worriedly, like they were afraid he was suddenly going to crumble again. But they needn’t be – he was more alert than he’d ever been, waiting for Moriarty’s next move. And if he took his doctor’s ordered three meals a day with more gusto than John had expected, neither of them commented.

It was only a fortnight before Sherlock’s phone vibrated on the table during dinner. He glanced at the number and lowered his cutlery slowly.

“Everything okay?” John asked between spoonfuls of rice.

“Course.” Sherlock smiled, opening the message.

It was an address in the nicest part of London, quite close to Mycroft’s townhouse actually. The rest of the message just said:

_Tonight. Come alone, obviously. JM_

“You have a date tonight?” Sherlock asked, going back to his Chinese.

“I’d ask how you know, but that would be stupid of me. Yes, I’m seeing Mary again.”

“Is it serious?”

John looked baffled. “I dunno. I guess.”

“So you’ll be staying the night.”

“Maybe. Why so interested all of a sudden?”

“I just wanted to know if I was on my own for breakfast.”

“Alright, I’ll let you know.”

 

Sherlock waited until John had left before running downstairs to get a cab. He didn’t feel bad about lying, though he did wonder if it was smart to go to Moriarty without telling anyone. What if it was a trap? But he reasoned Moriarty had had plenty of chances to kill him and never taken the shot. The cab pulled up outside an apartment block, a grandiose Georgian place with tall white doors and Sherlock started to feel that pull that had led him into this deal in the first place. He was going to see Moriarty, and he had no idea what the man would ask of him. It was terrifying and breathtakingly invigorating, his whole body trembling with anticipation. He paid the driver and hopped up, unsure about how to get in. He doubted Moriarty’s name was on the door. Sherlock walked up to the entrance and knocked. Through the windows he could see a night watchman of some kind, and his phone buzzed just as a voice came over the speaker.

“Yes?”

_Henderson, 7B._

“I’m here for Mr Henderson.” Sherlock said into the intercom.

“He’s expecting you, sir.”

There was a click and Sherlock opened the door, nodding as he came in. “Evening.”

“Evening, sir.”

There was one old lift with wrought iron doors, and he closed the grille behind him. He pushed the button for the 7th floor and waited impatiently for the slow conveyance to carry him up and stop, opening the grate hurriedly. There were only two apartments on the floor, and the door for B was halfway down the hall on his right. He could see a staircase at the other end and filed it away for later, just in case. Sherlock raised a hand to knock and the door was opened by an older woman in a neat black uniform.

“Hello Mr Holmes. My employer is expecting you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He followed her into the apartment. He guessed it was one of many, but the location seemed incredibly reckless to him – was Moriarty thumbing his nose at Mycroft or just figuring it was the place they’d least expect to find him? Or maybe it was just the snob in him Sherlock thought as he looked around at the luxurious decor. He could see well-appointed parlours and dining rooms that looked like they were never used, and a bedroom with a big cliché satin-covered four-poster.

“Ah, thank you Tabitha. That'll be all for the night.” Moriarty smiled as they entered a sort of lounge room cum library. The walls were full of bookcases but there was also a big screen TV and some DVDs. Jim was lounging on a couch reading what looked like _Time_ magazine in a pair of black slacks and a white t-shirt. With his bare feet it was so unlike the Moriarty he knew Sherlock almost gasped.

“Good night, Mr Henderson.” She smiled and headed out, leaving Sherlock facing his foe, intrigued.

 

“Want the tour? I’m sure you’re dying to see if you can use anything to figure me out.”

“This is clearly not your main residence, since it is the one you invited me to. So I can assume there’s nothing too revealing here.”

“Still, you might like to borrow a book or two.”

“What am I doing here? I doubt it’s to read each other stories.”

“We’ll get to that, but first let’s establish some ground rules. Sit.”

Sherlock frowned at the couch as if it had offended him, but perched on the edge as far from the other man as possible.

“Our arrangement here does not apply to our usual interactions, excepting that if you renege on your end, there will be no other interactions. I’ll disappear again and leave your life as dull and empty as before.”

“What are the rules?” Sherlock choked out.

“If I bring you here to see me, you will be civil.”

Sherlock looked despondent. “Why would I kill you? We’ve already said I can’t live without you now.”

“Even so. Secondly, you’ll do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

“Again, something I have already agreed to.”

“But I have to be sure, Sherlock.” Jim gave him a strange look.

“I promise.”

“Good. Then let’s get started.”

Moriarty inched closer to him, a hand going up to grip Sherlock’s jaw lightly. He tilted the detective’s head and pressed their lips together, mouth massaging Sherlock’s eagerly. The taller man didn’t know what to do, how to react – it was exactly the kind of surprise he’d come here for and still too overwhelming.

“You’re not being very co-operative.” Jim sung teasingly.

“I...sorry, just – is this what you want from me? Sex?”

“You sound disappointed Sherlock. Did I let you down with my base animalistic desires?” Moriarty tittered.

“You could get it from anyone.”

“But getting it from you, the famously asexual Sherlock, is so much more fun. I want to see how much you’re really willing to do for me, the lengths I can take you to. I want to break open that cold shell and pour myself in.”

Sherlock’s hands fisted in his pant legs, clenching the material.

“Oh don’t look so unhappy, lad! You’ll even enjoy it.”

Sherlock turned his head stiffly. “I’m not sure I’m what you want.”

“You, my little innocent, are exactly what I want. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through it.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know what he could say. He’d promised to do whatever Moriarty wanted, and honestly he preferred this scenario rather than being asked to kill John or something. It was brilliant on Moriarty’s part as well, something that would naturally put Sherlock off.  A huge part of him just wanted to walk away, but he couldn’t – not without driving Moriarty off. All in all it could have been much worse, and he nodded shyly.

“Let’s get this over with.”

“There’s the spirit! Relax, we’ll start slow.”

Moriarty crooked a beckoning finger with a sly grin, and Sherlock moved closer. Jim reached down and removed his scarf, unbuttoning Sherlock’s coat carefully before helping him shrug it off.

“Still such a skinny thing. The waif look is good on you though.”

“Do we have to talk?” Sherlock frowned.

Moriarty raised a brow. “Civil, Sherlock, we’re being civil.”

He unbuttoned the black shirt and peeled it apart slowly, examining Sherlock’s pale chest.

“Are you smoking again?”

“You know that I’m not.”

“And no drugs either. You’re a one addiction man, Sherly. Told you I was better than the others.”

Jim slid the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders and started inspecting his arms, fingertips gliding softly over the pale scars in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to hold himself, since sitting there rigidly probably didn’t satisfy Moriarty’s idea of ‘civil’. The light touches over his torso and arms were not unpleasant but not arousing either. He would have said they were almost clinical in their thoroughness but still teasing, still tender. He had never thought to expect any of this but especially not tenderness.

“Come on. I’m not going to take you on the couch – devilishly uncomfortable thing.”

Jim stood and offered his hand. Sherlock hesitated, wrestling with his pride for a moment before realising his very presence had done away with that already and taking it gingerly. He followed the criminal to the big, suddenly ominous bed. Moriarty guided him gently to sit on the edge and knelt to remove the taller man’s shoes and socks.

“Nervous?” Black eyes peered up at him slyly.

“I understand the theory.”

“The biology is much more simplistic than the actual sensation. That’s your problem Sherlock, you don’t let yourself feel anything.”

“I thought that was what you liked about me. Admired it as a kindred flaw.”

“I still know how to enjoy myself, I’m just stricter with my emotions.”

Sherlock raised a brow as he recalled the many mood swings he’d witnessed in their brief encounters. Moriarty stood again and pushed Sherlock backwards onto the mattress, straddling his waist. He lowered his mouth to Sherlock’s neck and kissed him lightly, continuing down across his collarbone and shoulder. The genius rolled his hips and Sherlock gasped.

“Am I getting to you Sherlock?” Jim smirked.

“Standard response to physical stimulus.”

Moriarty laughed. “You’re so delightfully stubborn.”

He sat back and undid Sherlock’s belt, then his pants. The detective felt a second of panic at the idea of being exposed to his greatest enemy, of Jim seeing the evidence he _was_ becoming aroused by the soft kisses and friction. But he lay completely still and let the other man take his slacks off. He wasn’t going to risk boring Moriarty, not after the emptiness of not having him around.

 

The Irishman prodded the growing bulge in Sherlock’s underwear curiously.

“How about it Sherlock? You still willing to give me what I want?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy.”

He stripped the underwear off and shoved it down Sherlock’s legs, straddling him again. Sherlock was incredibly aware of the way he was totally naked and Jim hadn’t taken off a single garment. He didn’t think it was self-consciousness, just a statement – a typical Moriarty power play. Sherlock was the vulnerable here, the needy. He was Jim’s to use as he liked.

The problem was it was all true. Even sex, this petty interaction Sherlock had gone out of his way to avoid because it was just boringly simple and unnecessary, this was interesting because it was Jim. Moriarty was unpredictable, impressive. Just the way he looked at Sherlock’s body was new and exciting, giving Sherlock no clues what he thought of it. He had accepted the sex as Moriarty wanting to make his mark, to push Sherlock into things he would never do for anybody else, but he realised if there was more to it he was horribly uninformed. Sherlock knew the chemical symptoms of attraction, knew the normal social behaviours that betrayed it but Jim was not normal. He had a hungry look in his eyes as he licked a slow trail up Sherlock’s stomach that the other man couldn’t decipher.

Despite Moriarty’s earlier protest, he didn’t seem to want to talk. He grazed his tongue over Sherlock’s neck again before devoting some attention to his nipples, already hard in the mildly chilly air of the bedroom. Sherlock didn’t really notice the cold though, with Moriarty’s warmth pressed against him. He was becoming hard as Jim rocked his pelvis against Sherlock’s groin, the growing pressure as distracting as he had always suspected.

“Are you going to tell them about this?” Moriarty hissed in his ear, still grinding away as his nails scraped down Sherlock’s bony sides.

“And be institutionalised or pitied or fussed over? Hardly.”

“Would you like me to promise not to blab?”

“Would it do any good?”

“I might consider it, since you’re so adorably red in the face right now.”

“A promise from you isn’t exactly ironclad.”

Jim made his exaggerated mock-hurt face. “Sherly! Haven’t I done everything I said I would?”

“Alright. Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

Moriarty laughed. “Oh, I’m not going to. Going to keep you all to myself. I just wanted to hear you ask nicely.”

Sherlock closed his eyes with a sigh. Of course. But he still didn’t doubt Jim would tell the world whenever he felt like it – probably with video and audio too.

 

Hearing Sherlock beg seemed to end Moriarty’s patient exploration of him. The criminal stood and stripped off quickly, making no show of it as he dropped his clothes in a heap. He nudged Sherlock until he turned, head on the pillows, before climbing back on top of him. The first touch of Moriarty’s skin burned, making Sherlock wriggle embarrassingly for more. Jim took a tube from the bedside table drawer and squeezed a dollop onto his fingers, slicking them up before leaning over Sherlock for another kiss. The detective had a better idea of what he wanted now, opening his mouth to give Moriarty access and even tentatively running his tongue against Jim’s. The kiss felt good, as his hormones dictated it should, and while Sherlock still didn’t think it was important he was sort of glad Jim was the first. At least he hadn’t wasted his time on ordinary people.

“We’re getting to the business end now, Sherlock, and I know that big brain will be tempted to view the whole thing as an experiment. But I want you to stop trying so hard to stay detached. I want to see the desire on your face. I want to see how much you need me, how much you’re willing to do for me.”

The words were accompanied by a finger circling his entrance, the lube unbelievably cold against his skin. Sherlock knew it would be easier if he relaxed, so he started listing all the commercially produced perfumes between 1970 and 1975 in his head. It wasn’t enough to stop the hiss that escaped him as Jim slid his slippery finger inside and when that finger curved upwards and pushed against his prostate, his grip on the fragrances disappeared altogether.

Jim smiled at the bewildered look under Sherlock’s initial moan of pleasure. He was going to take the great detective apart piece by piece until he was begging for Jim. Then he’d probably get bored and kill him, but for now he just slid another finger into the tight channel and thrust, sometimes hitting the prostate and sometimes only teasingly close. When Sherlock started to tilt his hips up for more, he grinned.

“Patience, my dear. Daddy will be with you in a moment.”

He added the third finger quickly, eager now to get on with it. He scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock out. It was uncomfortable, but Sherlock’s mind had always had a good control on his body before and he used what little control he had left to force his muscles to relax, accepting Jim’s movements. The consulting criminal opened the lube again and slicked himself up one-handed, still preparing Sherlock with the other. Sherlock took a moment to actually look at Jim’s cock, something that hadn’t really occurred to him before with all the other stimulation. It was a decent size, nothing outrageous, and he should be able to accommodate it after some initial unpleasantness. He was not expecting the sight of the other man stroking himself to be so affecting though. Watching Jim’s small fingers play over the swollen, pink flesh gave him a little jolt.

 

Moriarty lined himself up and withdrew his fingers, making Sherlock wince at the sudden change. But before he could really adjust the thick head was breaching him, slowly pushing through the restricting muscles. Jim hooked his hands behind Sherlock’s knees and drew his legs up until the detective obediently wrapped them around him, closing the gap between their bodies. Jim slid all the way in and Sherlock stared up at him agape, breathless. He felt stretched and filled and invaded and hurt, yes, but also hot waves of need radiating up through his core. His beloved internal monologue got harder and harder to follow until there were only the most basic observations – he was breathing fast, his heartbeat was rapid, the ceiling was white, he could feel every cell in his body, he couldn’t remember his name. It felt like the old days he’d spent drifting from one blissful delirium to the next, his brain shut off for days at a time. Except instead of blanketing him in a thick, comforting darkness, this made him feel like every muscle and organ was on fire. It was violent uncontrollable chaos of the mind Sherlock should have hated – but he couldn’t, because then Jim started moving and his brain came back.

“God yesssss.” The brunette hissed.

“That’s it Sherlock.” Jim smirked triumphantly as he sawed in and out.

“Need...you, need this.” Sherlock clung to him, fingers twisting in the criminal’s hair.

“Christ Sherlock, you’re tighter than a nun.”

“Please, please.”

Moriarty leaned down and kissed him savagely, his earlier caution gone. Sherlock winced as the other man bit his bottom lip, the coppery taste coating their tongues as he tried to keep up. He was raising his legs higher to open himself up more for those delicious thrusts, each one falling across his prostate with perfect cruelty. His prick was painfully hard against his stomach and he looked up at Jim with wide, pleading eyes.

“Do you want me to touch you, Sherlock?”

A particularly powerful spike of pleasure cut off Sherlock’s reply as he drew a shuddering breath.

“You have to say the words dear.”

“P-p-please Jim, please.”

Jim placed his mouth next to Sherlock’s ear. “Always remember that I did this to you. I made the cold, detached Sherlock Holmes beg for more.”

Sherlock was past giving a shit about their game: he just needed to come before he exploded. So instead of the sarcastic response his brain supplied, he just whispered.

“Yes.”

Moriarty’s hand closed around his cock and began to stroke in time with the frantic thrusts below. Sherlock’s eyes clamped shut as he moaned and surged up into the contact. He could feel the sweat running down his neck and hear the slap of their thighs, could make a hundred statements of fact regarding their coupling and not one single deduction other than it was the most intense high he’d ever had. Moriarty’s nails tickled the tip of his shaft as a clever tongue lashed at his lips, and Sherlock went completely stiff with the force of his climax. Warm white splattered over Moriarty’s hand and both their stomachs, and he clenched down on the criminal’s cock without meaning to. Jim howled and shook, spilling himself into Sherlock for what felt like forever.

 

Sherlock was surrounded by nothing but heat, scorching white heat. It was behind his eyes, in his mind, flaring out of every pore and searing his muscles. He had no sense of time, space or himself outside the unending white. Gradually it began to fade and he remembered where he was. He realised his legs were getting stiff and carefully unwrapped them from Moriarty’s waist. The criminal rolled off him, collapsing onto the pillow so close their heads almost touched. Sherlock felt like his brain was overloading with new data that needed to be considered and organised, but his fading rush of endorphins was making him very aware lying in bed next to Moriarty was not a good time to get lost in his thoughts.

“Are we done?”

Jim looked hurt, but Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was sincere or not. “Geez, no ‘Thanks for rocking my world Jim’? You’re welcome by the way.”

“You can’t expect thanks for that.”

“I dunno, you asked and I delivered. Sounds like you should be grateful to me.”

His smile was so infuriating Sherlock wanted to throttle him, but instead he just stood and reached for his trousers. He desperately wanted to shower but he couldn’t trust Moriarty out of his sight, so he’d have to hope John wasn’t home and he could clean up at Baker Street before anyone saw him.

“Alright, pout for now. Go home and think it over – I know you will. I’ll be in touch. You can show yourself out?”

Moriarty walked through a connecting door into his ensuite and shut it in a very finite manner. Sherlock threw on the rest of his clothes quickly, tempted to wipe his torso on Jim’s abandoned tee but not daring to leave the maniac any kind of souvenir. He let himself out and took the stairs, reasoning that he could descend faster on foot than the ancient lift. The watchman gave him a nod and wave as he exited, and Sherlock had already found a cab and gotten halfway home before realising he’d left his scarf under Moriarty’s couch.

*****

Sherlock couldn’t sleep, his mind whirring away as he undressed and showered and climbed into bed. Normally when he was working through something tricky he would have played his violin, but now he didn’t even consider it, too absorbed in a thousand different recollections. He went over the whole experience again and again, noting every expression and comment Moriarty had made and what they might be hiding, gauging his own reactions to the situation compared with what he had expected. He was still turning it over when John got home mid-afternoon, oblivious to the sound of the front door.

“Sherlock?” the doctor called.

He didn’t respond, just touched his fingers together under his chin. After a few minutes of rustling, John stuck his head in.

“Sherlock? Didn’t you hear me?”

“Hmm?”

John sighed. “Never mind.”

“You spent the night with Mary.”

“Yeah. What did you get up to, anything exciting? Any new cases?”

Sherlock sat up, twisting to sit on the edge of the bed. “So you and Mary are in a sexual relationship.”

“Uh, yeah,” John looked confused, “For about a fortnight now.”

“And you have feelings for her?”

“Yes. But look, don’t worry, I’m not rushing to move out of the flat-”

“But you could have a sexual relationship with her if you had no such feelings, even if you hated her, correct?”

“I...guess, though I don’t usually shag people I hate. Look Sherlock, what is this about?”

“How would she know the difference?”

“What difference?”

“How would she know whether your sexual activities were based on emotion or mere chemical impulses?”

“I dunno!” John threw his hands up, “Cos I’m nice to her? Because we go out on dates and talk about ourselves and we like each other’s personality?”

Sherlock ran that against what he knew. Moriarty certainly wasn’t nice to him, but there was an argument that their encounters could be seen as dates – or the closest either of them could get to one - especially last night, being invited into the lion’s den. As for talking about themselves Moriarty did little else. By almost all of John’s criteria, Moriarty could have feelings for him.

“Why do you ask? I thought all this sex stuff was beneath you.”

“You are always insisting I am ignorant in human relationships beyond the superficial. I am merely trying to educate myself.”

“Well can you leave my love life out of it? I was gonna go downstairs and grab something from the cafe. Do you want to come?”

Sherlock looked down at his dressing gown. “I’ll need clothes.”

“I’ll wait.”

 

The idea that Moriarty might like Sherlock as more than an adversary still didn’t seem likely since the man clearly didn’t care about anyone but himself. Jim only paid any attention to Sherlock because he was a worthy opponent, and now an obedient toy. He knew Moriarty would contact him again and would probably insist on furthering his sexual education for Jim’s own perverse pleasure. But Sherlock was determined not to be caught out, so he borrowed John’s laptop to do some research. It wasn’t something he could or cared to explain to John, so he just stayed in his room and said nothing, only venturing out for meals with the doctor. One morning John glanced over his breakfast with the look that promised an uncomfortable conversation.

“So, uh, am I ever getting my laptop back?”

Sherlock concentrated on his toast. “Why, worried about your readers? Don’t fret, John. When there’s something to blog about I’ll return it.”

“Sherlock, that’s not the point – oh forget it.”

Mrs Hudson came in with some over-flowing shopping bags and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

“Morning boys.” She moved around to kiss John.

“Mrs Hudson,” the doctor smiled, “Let me get my wallet.”

“Oh nonsense, you can give it to me after you’ve eaten!” she fussed as she started putting things away. Sherlock smirked at the revolted grimace that meant she’d found the skin cells he was growing on the counter.

“I insist.” John got up and headed upstairs to find some cash.

“There was a package for you Sherlock.”

“A package?” he turned.

Mrs Hudson rifled through the shopping bags and found it, putting it by his plate. Sherlock took one look at the distinctive skull wrapping paper and stood.

“Not a very nice gift, I thought, but then you’re the one who likes that sort of thing.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock grabbed the box and swept out by the living room door as he heard John coming back down the stairs. He hurried to his room and turned the lock to better examine his present. It was a square box, only about the width of a CD case but twice as big. There was no signs of postage, just a white label with Sherlock’s name and address. That it was from Moriarty he didn’t doubt, but as to whether or not it was dangerous he couldn’t be sure. It seemed unlikely Moriarty would poison him or blow the flat up: too impersonal an end for their little game. But the criminal was unpredictable to the nth degree, so Sherlock decided to be careful. He put on his coat and stuffed the box in the pocket, taking off without a word to anyone.

 

“Hi Sherlock.”

“Molly.” He inclined his head benevolently.

“You’re in a good mood.” She looked perplexed.

“I’ve got a secret admirer,” Sherlock hung his coat over a stool and retrieved the box, “I need to use an x-ray machine.”

“Sure.”

Sherlock set up the scanner and carefully placed the box down, eyes locked to the screen.

“So. Someone sent you a present?” Molly strolled over casually.

“Yes.”

“And you’re x-raying it.”

“It doesn’t pay to be too careful.”

“But you don’t know who it’s from?”

He shot her a scornful look. “I didn’t say that. I said I had an admirer, and it’s a secret.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” She wandered away looking hurt.

Sherlock stared after her, not sure if he should say something. John would have made him apologise but he wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. Sherlock opened his mouth but then the scanner beeped and his attention raced back to the box. Nothing incendiary, nothing metal at all. The box appeared to be empty.

“Curious.”

Sherlock lifted the box, sniffed it, shook it. There was nothing to indicate a powder and no container for a gas, as the box sides gave slightly when he pressed. It looked like normal cardboard. He took a scalpel and slit the paper carefully, removing it in one piece. He checked the back but there were no messages. The box was orange with a small black logo in the middle: _Hermés_. Sherlock lifted the lid carefully. Nestled in tissue paper was a deep purple scarf, folded crisply and incredibly soft-looking. Sherlock checked the back of the lid and sure enough there was a tiny cipher.

 _To replace what you left behind. I’m keeping that one_.

He drew the expensive piece of fabric up and examined it, but it seemed perfectly safe and normal. His phone buzzed and he draped the scarf over one hand as he rifled through his pockets for it.

_Like? JM_

_Bit flamboyant for my taste. Is it going to poison me? SH_

_Oh don’t be boring. If I was going to poison you I wouldn’t have wasted a perfectly good scarf._

_Why send it at all?_

There was no reply, but Sherlock hadn’t really hoped for one. Half the fun of the gift for Moriarty was probably making Sherlock wonder why he sent it. He was tempted to just give the thing away, maybe use it to apologise to Molly, but the vision of the girl dead somewhere with it wrapped around her neck stopped him. He had to keep Moriarty happy – and after all, he did need a new scarf. If this saved him having to speak to moronic sales assistants, it was fine with him.

 

The scarf was followed by a rare bird skeleton, new strings for his violin and a preserved human heart. All came in the same black paper with skulls and a note that showed Sherlock how closely Moriarty was watching him. The gifts themselves were things he knew Sherlock would like, and the detective didn’t have a problem accepting them after he’d checked each for bugs and cameras and found none. But it made him wonder again. Moriarty hadn’t contacted him for another meeting, just started sending something every other week. So far he’d kept them from John, but he knew Molly and Mrs Hudson were both curious and it was only a matter of time before he had to explain who they were from. The day came sooner than he’d expected, when two workmen showed up with an enormous wrapped package and Mrs Hudson came to get both John and Sherlock to help them.

“Who are they?” John frowned as they left their breakfast and headed downstairs.

“Said they were just the couriers, dear.”

“Couriers for who?” John glanced at Sherlock for an explanation but the detective didn’t even notice. He was too excited to see what this new gift revealed, and slightly worried about how he was going to explain it.

“What the hell is that?” John gaped.

The package was clearly a mattress wrapped in plastic, big and deep. John strode over to speak to the deliverymen.

“We didn’t order this.”

“You are Mr Sherlock Holmes of 221B?” The guy checked his clipboard.

“I am.” Sherlock stepped forward.

“Then it’s for you. Already paid, and there’s a card for you too.”

He handed over a small white envelope with a blank black seal on the back.

“Sherlock, what is this?”

“John, will you and Mrs Hudson please show these gentlemen to my bedroom?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

“I will, just show them.”

John scowled at him but led the men inside, helping squeeze the mattress through the front door. Mrs Hudson fussed about and tried to be helpful but didn’t really achieve much. Sherlock slid his nail under the seal and popped it open, pulling out a small white card.

_I like to sleep comfortably. See you tonight xx_

He took the stairs two at a time and found the others just wrestling the mattress into his room. The old one was shoved aside to make room and they laid the thing on his bed base and straightened up.

“Would you like us to take that, Mr Holmes?” the talkative man pointed at his old mattress.

“Yes, just let me take the sheets off.” The genius stripped the bed quickly.

“Sherlock, you going to explain any of this?” John just stared.

“Not here. Mrs Hudson, do you mind?” he nodded towards the unmade bed.

“I certainly do!”

“Thank you.” He swept into the lounge room as the mattress men left.

“Since when do you care about your mattress? You barely sleep anyway,” John followed him, “And who sent it?”

“It’s from Moriarty.”

“M-m-“ John leaned on the back of his chair, “Moriarty?”

“Yes. He’s coming here tonight and I believe the mattress is supposed to unsettle me, with its obvious sexual connotations.”

“He’s coming here! What?”

“Yes. Perhaps it’s better if you’re not home.” Sherlock mused.

“Like hell he’s setting foot in this house!”

“Oh please John, if he wanted either of us dead it would be just as easy if he never came.”

“What about the mattress? You’re just going to keep it? It could be a bomb, Sherlock.”

“Hardly. Too obvious.”

John clenched both hands on the chair back, breathing hard as he looked down. “Tell me you can see how insane this is. At least call Lestrade and get it checked out.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It won’t do any good. But I really think if you’re going to get so worked up, you should go out for the evening.”

John opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock just picked up his violin and started a fast jig, drowning him out. John looked like he was about to snap the bow in half, but instead grabbed his jacket and stomped downstairs.

*****

Moriarty hadn’t put a time on the note but by six Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, violin in hand but simply tapping the bow against his leg impatiently. The gifts had been a teasing reminder of the actual man but the real thing had him jittery and hyper, his body reacting without his consent. John hadn’t come home yet but that was for the best. He didn’t really want to give Moriarty the chance to go back on his word and admit to John the reason for his visit – or worse, insist he watch. At exactly eleven he heard the front door open and careful steps on the stairs, the wood creaking louder than usual. Moriarty wanted to make a big entrance. Sherlock placed the violin on his side table and crossed his legs, hands in his lap.

“Hi. Let myself in, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Saves me the trip downstairs.”

“John’s out.”

“Yes.”

“Was he angry about my little gift?” Moriarty smirked.

“More about your visit. I told him it would be best if he wasn’t here and apparently he agreed.”

“Though I wouldn’t put it past him to charge in with half of Scotland Yard. Did you like the presents? I see you kept them.” Moriarty sat in John’s chair, flexing his fingers against the arm rests.

“You knew I would.”

“I have to say shopping for you is fun. It’s not hard, but making sure of all the little details was quite entertaining. I was going to get some sheets to go with it but I figured they’d be wasted on you, dear – covered in lab spills and burns in no time.”

“Why did you send it? Any of it?”

Moriarty looked surprised by the question. “Because I care, Sherlock. Because I want you to know you’re always in the front of my mind. Why did you keep them?”

Sherlock looked away. “They were nice.”

“And more importantly, they were from me.”

“Tea?”

“Maybe later.”

Sherlock stood. “To the bedroom then?”

Moriarty laughed, making Sherlock frown. “Silly boy! That’s not why I’m here.”

“I thought that was the terms of our arrangement. That’s what you want.”

“I said you have to do what I say, not just sleep with me. And tonight I want us to play board games and talk.”

Sherlock raised a brow. “Board games? Talk? Bit mediocre isn’t it?”

“Oh no Sherlock. Nothing about you is ever mediocre.” Jim’s eyes glittered.

 

221B’s supply of board games was sadly lacking, since Sherlock had no patience for most of them. He managed to find a battered copy of Battleship and decided it was better than the endless drudgery of Monopoly or the stupidity of Cluedo. They set up at the kitchen table, Jim draping his jacket over the back of his chair and rolling up his sleeves like he was preparing to actually sink some warships. It was so strangely domestic Sherlock almost laughed. The ship placement took a long time as they silently went over all the most likely positions and discarded them. Finally Sherlock looked up to find Jim waiting, arms crossed.

“After you?”

Moriarty made a great show of rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “A5.”

“Miss,” Sherlock clipped the word off between his teeth cheerfully, “G6.”

“Miss. You know the difference between you and me can be summed up by one thing? B4.”

“Miss. What’s that? G4.”

“Miss. It’s the tie. You wear suits, but never a tie. C3.”

“Hit,” Sherlock grimaced. “And what do you think that tells you? D4.”

“Miss! You don’t dress up for your clients – you don’t care what anyone thinks of you. No, it’s simply that you don’t behave in any way that requires casual clothing, or stiff formality. You dress completely for yourself in something that suits your work, and if you’re not working then you wear your old dressing gown or nothing at all. Not that I’m complaining, my dear. Both options are terribly flattering on you. But you are, as you told the good doctor, married to your work and it’s the only thing you dress for.”

“And what does your tie say about you, hmm? You’re vain enough to want every trimming when no one ever sees your face?”

“Ouch! So cutting Sherly. You’re right in that it’s not a question of image for anyone else. I just like it. That’s the difference, Sherlock. You want everything to make sense and have a reason. I just do what I like. C4.”

“Hit. Is this a message? About you and me? To stop questioning your motives?”

“Which, you may have noticed, you are doing again right now.” James smirked knowingly.

Sherlock’s mouth tightened. He had a point. “You know I can’t stop wondering. That’s what all this is about isn’t it? Our great battle of wits? D6.”

“I know, and honestly you’d be as boring as everyone else if you stopped using that beautiful brain. I’m only saying sometimes there is no reason. Hit. C2.”

Sherlock pouted. “Hit. E6.”

 

By one they’d exhausted Battleship as well as snap and blackjack. Sherlock had adamantly refused to play the strip variations of any of the games, and Jim made a hurt face but hadn’t pushed it. Sherlock knew when he was being humoured. Jim was shuffling the cards again and glanced at his watch.

“It’s late, honey.”

“So? I recognise a fellow insomniac when I see one.”

Jim just smiled. “I do sleep sometimes.”

Sherlock got a lump in his throat at the insinuation that Moriarty was leaving, but the smaller man didn’t get up.

“So are we going to test that new mattress? I like to see where my money goes.”

Sherlock shrugged and stood, heading for his bedroom. “I assume you know the way?”

He stripped off his shirt, tossing it in the dirty laundry pile that spilled out from the far corner. His shoes went next, and as he untied them he thought about how Jim had looked at his apartment – barefoot, t-shirt, casual and content. Why did he feel the need to wear shoes for visitors in his own home? He didn’t wear pants for Buckingham Palace.

“Got a chair not covered in silver nitrate stains?” Jim said as he entered, shucking off his shirt to reveal a plain white tee.

“No, but there’s a hook on the back of the door.”

The criminal hung up his shirt, and then removed his own shoes and belt before flopping onto Sherlock’s new bed.

“Ah yes! Perfect. Well, almost.” He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

The brunette took off his belt and was immediately tugged down into Jim’s arms and turned so that the smaller man was wrapped around his back.

 

He lasted all of a minute before cracking. “What are we doing?”

“Sleeping, you ninny. Hence the trousers. If I wanted you for anything else we’d both already be naked.”

“I can’t sleep with you here. I’m too...”

“Edgy? I know. But you can think lying down just as well as sitting in that horrid armchair.”

Sherlock grumbled a bit and gave a huge sigh, but he lay still and let Moriarty’s arm rest over his waist. He was more confused by their so-called arrangement than ever. Did Jim want a pal? Someone who wasn’t ordinary to keep him entertained? Then where did the sex fit in – just a passing whim, a need to be the first to push past Sherlock’s defences, or was it something that was going to happen again? Were they... _friends with benefits?_ Sherlock struggled with the term for a moment. He wasn’t sure how any of these potential relationships were supposed to work. Normally he’d ask John, but the doctor seemed fairly irate at him having anything to do with Moriarty. Sherlock couldn’t really blame him, but he was a bit concerned Watson had gone to Mycroft. He didn’t expect Jim to be so careless as to get caught in 221B, but he didn’t want his brother paying him any more attention than usual either.

“Jim?”

“Urgh. Yes Sherlock?”

“Why are you here?”

He expected the same brush-off he’d gotten earlier, but Moriarty just snuggled closer. “I’m giving you what you want.”

“Which is?”

“Someone you can’t figure out in five seconds. Now go to sleep, Sherlock, or at least shut up.”

The answer was surprising but did nothing to help him pin down what they were to each other now. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let his thoughts drift.

 

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes it was bright out. Too bright, he thought as he rolled further into the covers, relishing how comfy the new mattress was. He glanced at the other side of the bed and found Moriarty gone. It wasn’t unexpected, but the angry sounds coming from the kitchen were. Sherlock contemplated just staying in bed forever, but he knew John would eventually come in and bother him anyway. He wrapped himself in the sheet and shuffled out to the lounge room. John was bashing away with the pans, doing the washing up as loudly as possible it seemed. Probably purposefully to wake Sherlock and give the genius no excuse to claim he didn’t know John was upset. Last night’s cards were still scattered across the kitchen table around the petri dishes and microscope. John noticed him and scowled.

“Cards! You let the most dangerous criminal in London into our flat to play cards! The man who blew up twelve people and strapped a bomb to my chest, the man who promised to kill you! For cards!”

“We played Battleship too.”

The plate in John’s hand actually grazed Sherlock’s ear as it flew past.

“You inconsiderate, stupid arse! How could you do this-this-this...urgh! I had half a mind to call down Lestrade and Mycroft on you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No I bloody well didn’t. I figured I owed you a chance to explain – and you’re going to Sherlock, or so help me I will tell your brother. No more of this secretive nonsense. It’s my flat too and I deserve to know!”

“Very well. Do come and sit down though before there are any more broken dishes to add to the rent.”

John made a huffy, inaudible remark but dried his hands and sat at the table. With a glare he shoved the cards to one side. Sherlock sat.

“Moriarty and I made a deal.”

“Oh Jesus, Sherlock I already don’t like where this is going.”

“When he left London and the interesting cases dried up, I realised I could never be as fulfilled as I was before I knew he existed. There was no one worthy left to make me work for it. That’s why I ended up in hospital – nothing seemed to matter anymore.”

“You’re telling me that whole debacle was because you missed Moriarty?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Christ Sherlock! You’re cracked.”

“Hardly. Do you have any idea John what it’s like to be me? To always need something new and difficult? And Moriarty was that. So he came back and found me at St Bart’s, and he promised to keep up our game for the price of my company.”

“Sherlock, that’s insane. How could you agree to something like that?”

“Well the alternative was I go back to my old habit, and Mycroft would only stick me in rehab again.”

John looked uneasy at the reference to Sherlock’s past. “Still, this is not a stable situation. You and Moriarty are enemies, Sherlock. You’re on different sides. Eventually one of you will have to bring down the other, and I’d rather it was him that ended up behind bars.”

“I know,” Sherlock whispered, “But either way I can’t go on now without him.”

John looked somewhere between upset and concerned, his feelings about Moriarty obviously conflicting with his worry for Sherlock’s mental state.

“I’m not going to tell Mycroft yet. Not if you feel the way you do. But there are conditions Sherlock. I want you to see a therapist and I want you to promise me Jim Moriarty never sets foot in this flat again. You can go to him from now on. And you have to tell me that’s where you are – just in case.”

“Very well.”

John just stared at him a minute longer and then stood, going back to his dishes.

 

Sherlock was willing to comply with John’s last two requests, but he had no intention of seeing someone. How could they help him? Sherlock was not the kind of man who benefited from the advice of a mental health professional he was almost certainly smarter than. Every night at dinner John would ask if he’d heard from Moriarty, but so far the criminal hadn’t contacted him again. He was starting to get antsy, searching every incoming case for the faintest hint of Jim’s involvement in the hopes ordinary detective work would turn into something more engaging. Other than those moments, John never mentioned Jim. They had the same conversation once a week.

“Have you found a therapist yet?” John would ask.

“No, no, still looking.”

“You could see mine, she’s friendly.”

“Bit of a conflict of interest if she sees us both though, isn’t it?”

“You should ask Mycroft. You don’t have to tell him what it’s about, you can just say it’s the hospital stay. He’d know some great psychs.”

“Absolutely not.” Sherlock would reply, ending the subject.

Then one afternoon about three weeks after Jim’s visit to the flat, they got a call from Lestrade to meet him at St Bart’s morgue on a new case. Sherlock was as excited as always by the detective inspector’s call, dragging John downstairs with his jacket still half-on. They got a cab to the hospital and hurried through the grey halls to find Greg standing outside the morgue doors rubbing the lower part of his face.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“I think you need to see this.”

John threw Sherlock a worried look but the taller man just strode inside. Molly stood over a corpse, examining the teeth. She stepped aside quickly when Sherlock entered.

“No.” He whispered.

Though he knew it was impossible, unbelievable, the body on the table was James Moriarty.

“Sherlock? Oooh...” John froze as he recognised the dead man.

“Is it him?” Lestrade pushed.

“Can’t be. This-this-no. No it can’t be.”

“Sherlock, it looks exactly like him.” John said softly.

“Molly recognised him when he was brought in and thought she should call me.” Lestrade continued.

“It can’t be.” Sherlock muttered again. His brain was shutting down, gears winding to a stop on the frozen image of Jim’s face with eyes wide and lifeless. He could hear John asking about cause of death and Molly’s reply, but nothing would process. Was this it? He’d known Moriarty was not immortal but the man had seemed so untouchable. Despite John’s reservations he’d thought their game would carry on forever.

 

“Sherlock!” John cried as the genius sunk to his knees, staring at nothing.

“Can’t be. Impossible.”

“Dr Watson?” Lestrade frowned as both men knelt by the fallen Holmes.

“Shock. We should get him out of here.”

Together they dragged him upright but he just hung limply in their grip. They took him outside and to a chair away from the morgue doors.

“Can you get some water?” John asked.

“Right.”

Lestrade disappeared and John grabbed Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Come on, let me know you can hear me. Don’t slip away again. Sherlock!”

Lestrade came back with a glass and offered Sherlock a sip, but his lips stayed firmly closed.

“I’m going to take him home.”

“I’ll help you get him downstairs.”

“No, I think I can manage now he’s a bit more aware. You could have warned us.”

Lestrade looked sheepish. “I didn’t think. Usually he’s so unflappable.”

John went to the nearest nurses’ station and asked for a wheelchair, and managed to lift Sherlock enough to slide him on. He wanted to get Sherlock somewhere private before he had a complete meltdown. The doctor wheeled his friend to the lift and then outside, pushing him to the edge of the pavement to hail a cab.

“Don’t worry Sherlock, we’ll get you home and warm and once you’ve calmed down we can find out what’s going on.”

“Can’t be.” The other man just shook his head weakly.

John flung his arm out at a passing taxi but it already had passengers. He scanned the oncoming traffic for the next one, keeping a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, though he wasn’t sure if it was to reassure the stricken man or himself. He wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock so incapacitated. A black town car pulled up to the kerb next to them and the back window slid down.

“Need a ride Johnny-boy?” Moriarty grinned.

 

“You!” John gasped.

He glanced down at Sherlock to gauge the detective’s reaction, but he seemed to be looking at Moriarty without really seeing him.

“Can’t be.”

“Oh, did I break him? I’d hate to damage that brilliant mind permanently.” Jim pouted.

“What was that display upstairs? What is going on!”

“Get in and I’ll explain.”

“Not likely!” John snorted.

Moriarty’s words were said with slowly, deliberately. “It’s not a conversation for the sidewalk.”

He opened the door and took Sherlock’s hands to drag him inside, but John batted him away and helped the man himself. Together they settled Sherlock against the window, the brunette just staring at Moriarty silently.

“Baker Street.” Moriarty snapped at his driver.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Exactly Dr Watson. It became rather important for me to slide off the map for a while, and who better to make it credible than an identification from the great Sherlock Holmes?”

“So that whole scene, what you’ve done to him, that was on purpose?”

“Yes. It’s nothing he can’t recover from.”

John wanted to hit him: for his frivolous tone, the way he used Sherlock for his own gains, for affecting the genius so deeply that even now he still couldn’t move. He was worried the two shocks so close together might actually do some real harm.

“And didn’t I make myself known again straight away, at great personal risk might I add.”

“Geez, let me give you a medal. Look at him!”

“I am. Hello Sherly.”

That seemed to wake Sherlock up a bit. His gaze locked with Moriarty’s, intense and sad.

“It was a perfect copy.” He croaked out.

“Of course.”

“But I knew it wasn’t you.”

“Still fell to pieces though, and that’s all that mattered. The most convincing reactions are the real ones.”

“This is cruel, even for you.” John sneered.

“Time to get out, Johnny-boy.”

They stopped and John realised they were already home. He turned to Sherlock and Moriarty laid a hand on his arm.

“Not him. He’s staying.”

“What! Not on your life.”

“I’m already dead, John.”

“If you think I’m going to leave him with you like this, you are totally off your head!”

“Oooh I like the fire in you. Can see why Sherlock keeps you around.” Moriarty winked.

“It’s okay John.”

“No it bloody well isn’t! We’re getting out.”

“I need to stay.” Sherlock whispered.

If anything that only made John more determined that he shouldn’t, but he knew he couldn’t forcibly drag Sherlock away without Moriarty interfering. He fixed the criminal with an ugly glare.

“You harm him at all, physically or mentally, and I will gut you.”

“I won’t do a thing. Scouts’ honour.” Jim fluttered his lashes innocently.

 

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “You sure?”

“I’ll be fine, John.”

The doctor climbed out, frowning the whole time, and stayed outside to watch them drive away.

“Much better! So Sherlock, tell me. Did your whole world start to spin off its axis when you saw me on the table?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just threw himself across the car and started touching Jim, his face and chest and arms and legs, making sure he was real. He drew a hand back and slapped the genius.

“John’s right. That was cruel. A display to show your power over me.”

“Not many people could do that to me and live, Sherly, but I’m going to make an exception because you’re not in your right mind. And because frankly, it was pretty hot.”

He accompanied that with an upward thrust. Sherlock’s brain, still ringing with the idea of a world without Jim, picked up on the signal and his body automatically surged forward. He climbed into Jim’s lap and kissed him without hesitation. It was long and desperate as Sherlock threw his limited experience into making Jim as happy as possible.

“Interesting reaction.” Moriarty raised a brow when he eventually pulled away for breath.

“You promised you wouldn’t go away.” Sherlock muttered, cringing at how pathetic that sounded.

“So you’ve decided to give me the incentive to stay? Wonderful initiative my dear. Go on then, make Daddy pleased with you.”

Sherlock kissed him again, grinding his hips down to brush against Jim’s groin. He felt the criminal’s fingers curl around his thighs and repeated the action, his tongue swivelling around Moriarty’s mouth as he pressed their torsos together. He slid a hand down between them and cupped the growing bulge in Jim’s pants. He unbuckled the belt and unfastened them, slipping his hand inside to draw the swelling flesh out.

“You are a right minx, aren’t you Sherly my love?”

Sherlock kissed his neck. “Stay.”

“Oh I’m nowhere near done with you, sweet.”

Jim pressed forward, arms wrapping around Sherlock’s waist as he crushed himself to the slender man, kiss demanding and rough. Sherlock closed his fingers around Moriarty’s cock and stroked as best he could in the limited space. Moriarty moaned and he spared a look at the driver but the man didn’t even turn his head.

“He’s very well-trained. Don’t get distracted Sherly.”

 

Feeling particularly stupid, Sherlock slid backwards off Jim’s lap to kneel between his legs. The criminal raised a brow but tilted his hips forward to make it easier. Sherlock wanted to take a moment to examine the stiff member pointing at him, to form some kind of attack plan, but part of him said it was wiser to just get on with it and try not to think. He closed his lips around the head and licked lightly. Moriarty groaned deep in his throat, gaze predatory as he licked his lips. Sherlock sunk forward slowly, trailing his wet lips down Jim’s shaft and then sucked his way back up as he rocked onto his heels again. Feeling a bit less silly with the soft groans Moriarty was making, he bobbed up and down a few times experimentally. That earned him a hand grasping at his dark curls, pushing forward insistently.

“No one likes a tease.”

It wasn’t exactly the truth coming from Jim but Sherlock took it as a sign to speed up. His hand wrapped around the base and pumped quickly while he lavished his attention on the head, slathering the swollen red bulb with his tongue. His eyes were fixed on Jim’s pale stomach, admiring the muscle tone peeking out from under his shirt. They drifted up to the tie, an elegant black and silver striped affair with a silver tie clip. Sherlock’s gaze kept drifting while his brain focussed lower down. He could see Moriarty’s mouth twitching between rounded cooing and a devilish smug smile. Their eyes met and Sherlock felt like he’s died, struck down by the raw wickedness and mirth and wanting he saw in the dark pools. He stopped moving until a gentle tug at his hair reminded him, and then he didn’t stop staring up at Jim even as his hands and mouth worked faster.

“That’s it, my sweet, my gorgeous Sherlock.”

He sucked and swirled and tugged and Moriarty went rigid, nails digging into his scalp. He didn’t try to control Sherlock’s movements, just held on painfully as the detective worked his lips, the slurping obscenely loud in the otherwise silent car. With a moan that sounded like innocent disappointment but wasn’t, Jim spilled himself into Sherlock until it escaped the corners of his mouth. The detective was a little surprised and a little curious, and contemplated for about a half second spitting it on the floor or Moriarty’s pants before deciding both actions were equally suicidal. He swallowed instead and wiped his mouth on his hand. Moriarty gave a contented sigh and fastened his pants.

“I think that’s enough of the scenic route.”

He hadn’t said it overly loud, but the seemingly deaf driver immediately sped up and changed direction. Sherlock pulled himself up onto the seat beside James and the criminal patted his knee.

“You’re so gorgeous with a cock in your mouth.”

“I’m not sure what the appropriate response is for that.”

“Well you could start with thank you.” Moriarty said cheerfully.

They sat in silence for another five minutes before pulling up outside the same apartment block as before.

“What are we doing here?” Sherlock frowned.

Jim looked bemused. “What, you thought I was just going to drop you at Baker Street after that little performance? Oh no Sherly, you and I have a lot more fun in store.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stayed with Moriarty for two days. During that time the criminal seemed to pay no attention to his work other than reading his messages as they came in, devoting every second to Sherlock. The detective got relentless texts from John demanding to know where he was and when he was coming home, but he only answered one in every three, and then only briefly. The rest of the time they alternated between debating various world problems or academic theories, playing chess or Mousetrap (because as Jim said, there was something rather fun about imminent doom resting on the shoulders of chance) and having more sex. So much sex Sherlock felt like his muscles were turning to pudding and he was constantly ravenous, even with the endless supply of gourmet takeout. He actually did pick out a few books to borrow from the library, mostly chemistry but a few basic astrological texts after Jim expressed no small amusement that he could identify cigarettes by their ash but couldn’t name the planets.

“I’ll give you a hint – Pluto’s not one anymore.”

“I would have thought you of all people would understand discarding useless facts that are regularly disproven anyway.” Sherlock pouted.

Jim carded his fingers through the dishevelled brown curls. “You can never be too well-informed.”

 At the end of the second day, Moriarty walked him down to the lobby and nodded to the waiting car.

“Hate to cut our visit short, but I have some things that cannot be neglected a moment longer.”

Sherlock had a moment of brief panic that he fought to keep off his face, but evidently not well enough. Jim rubbed his thumb along Sherlock’s lower lip.

“Don’t fret, sexy. You’ll be seeing me soon enough.”

He kissed Sherlock roughly for a moment, then stepped back and handed him the books. The detective wandered out feeling lost and tumbled into the back of the car. The driver didn’t ask for an address, just pulled away, and Sherlock closed his eyes to go over every moment he’d spent with Moriarty since the hospital in an attempt to set it firmly in his bones. He was so engrossed he barely noticed they’d stopped and someone was holding the door for him.

“Mr Holmes?”

“Right. Thank you.”

He headed inside quickly, hoping to avoid Mrs Hudson and go straight to bed. He’d slept badly at Jim’s, not wanting to waste a second. But when he got to the flat, John breezed out of the kitchen and grabbed his arm.

“Sherlock! You’re alright?”

“Fine, fine.”

“You didn’t say when you’d be coming back.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

The doctor made a face. “And...Moriarty? Did you...how was it?”

“Fine. We talked a lot, borrowed some books.” He held them up.

John just stared at him for a moment before bursting into a laugh that was cut off just as quickly. “You spent two days with the world’s only consulting criminal and all you did was talk and go through his book collection? You expect me to believe that?”

“What else would we have been doing?” Sherlock kept his face stony.

“I dunno, showing off, playing who’s the cleverest, anything but that.”

“Well we didn’t.”

“Sherlock this is madness! You’re acting like you and Moriarty are friends. Two days ago you had a nervous breakdown because you thought he was dead. Have you forgotten he’s the bad guy?”

“My morals do not always match yours, as we have seen.”

“So you’re fine with it then? Chatting away to a thieving, murdering psychopath?”

“Some of the most interesting people are the ones who act outside social convention.”

John put his hand over his eyes. “I know this is hard for you to grasp Sherlock, but you could try being a little more human sometimes.”

“But I am no ordinary person, John. You seem to be forgetting that.”

Sherlock went into his room with his usual indifference and closed the door. John shook his head and grabbed his jacket, determined to finally see Mycroft.

*****

John wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d told Mycroft they needed to talk about Sherlock, but an immediate reply with the address of a local cafe was not it. John in his anger had already stormed past the street and had to backtrack for a few minutes, only to find Mycroft had still beaten him.

“You knew I was going to contact you.” He accused as he sat.

A waitress set out tea with two cups as Mycroft clasped his hand on the table.

“I was about to call you, actually. I heard about Sherlock’s incident at the hospital.”

“Which part?”

“All of it, of course.” The elder Holmes raised his brows.

“Then you know he spent the last two days with Moriarty. Care to explain why you didn’t intervene?”

Mycroft poured himself a cup with great care. “Come Dr Watson, don’t pretend to be ignorant of what I do.”

“You wanted to see if Moriarty would tell Sherlock something you could use against him. So Sherlock’s working with you?”

“No,” The statesman stirred in a sugar lump and lifted the cup to blow the steam away, “Tea?”

“What do you mean he’s not working with you? So this strange dependence and completely unfounded trust in Moriarty is all real and Sherlock’s losing it, and you haven’t done anything to help him because you just want him to spy for you.”

“Something like that.”

John spluttered for a moment before laughing. “I thought my sister was bad but you, Mycroft, you take the cake.”

“He is in no danger, and we’ll never have another chance like this to get someone into Moriarty’s circle.”

“No danger!” John shouted, instantly dropping his voice when a waitress glanced over, “He was gone for _two days_. Moriarty could have butchered him at any moment.”

“He would not kill Sherlock unless it was guaranteed to be a display. Killing Sherlock is going to be Moriarty’s greatest triumph, but also his defeat. He has nowhere to go from there. He’ll save it for something big, and that we can handle adequately enough.”

“Forgive me if I don’t put a lot of faith in anyone outsmarting Jim Moriarty, even you.” John scoffed.

“I assure you Sherlock is as safe with Moriarty as he is at Baker Street – safer even, because when they are together he has Moriarty’s own people protecting him. Tea?”

“I don’t want any bloody tea! This obsession has already put Sherlock in the hospital once. At the morgue it was like he was broken. If you don’t find a way to fix this, he’s going to lose his mind.”

“Isn’t that what you’re for, Dr Watson?”

 

John shook his head and stood, but Mycroft’s umbrella handle caught his elbow.

“Sit. Have some tea. There are some things about Sherlock you need to know.”

John wasn’t particularly interested in anything Mycroft had to say, but for Sherlock’s sake he sat. Mycroft didn’t speak, pouring another cup and adding the milk. John didn’t even bother to ask how Holmes knew he didn’t take sugar, just took the cup and stared at him.

“You know he has a history of substance abuse?”

“Yeah. No one’s ever gone into it but I’ve seen how he is when he needs a smoke and he’s pretty bad.”

“My brother has an addictive personality. It comes from being brilliant and restless. He is easily bored. Thus when he finds something that can calm him like the cigarettes or distract him like your cases together, he tends to latch onto them to the point of excess. In his youth the calming influence was a little more extreme, and now so is his distraction.”

“You’re saying his current addiction is Moriarty?”

“Clearly. What drug or ordinary villain could compare to the changeable, animated genius criminal?”

John was thoughtful for a moment. “But you got him cleaned up. As far as I know, he hasn’t touched hard drugs in years.”

“And you think I should put him in rehab for this addiction? I am afraid it will not be as easy this time. Moriarty himself will not want me to interfere, and he’ll only undermine Sherlock’s recovery and continue to cloud his mind.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Let him use Sherlock’s needs against him until he gets bored and kills him? Cos I have no doubt Sherlock would let him. He said he couldn’t live without Moriarty.”

“We must wait, Dr Watson. You have quickly become Sherlock’s anchor for emotion and morality, and with you keeping an eye on him we can try to slowly wean him off this dependence. I am confident with Mrs Hudson’s help you can bring him back.”

“And you’re not going to do anything to stop this in the meantime?” John pressed.

“It’s been a lovely chat.” Mycroft sipped the last of his tea.

John stood and threw him a disgusted look, placing his own untouched cup on the table before marching away.

 

He stopped asking about the therapist, since he knew it was never going to happen. But instead John paid more attention to keeping Sherlock busy. Usually he only did it to stop the man destroying parts of the flat or annoying the crap out of him, but now he actively sought better cases and bigger excursions. He didn’t mention Moriarty again but he was confident that even with all his efforts Sherlock was still constantly thinking about Jim. It was weeks now since the two day visit, and he’d noticed Sherlock was getting edgier and more impatient with people, pacing the flat and glancing at his phone every five minutes. John scanned the paper desperately for something to work with.

“Lestrade hasn’t called?” Sherlock barked.

“Not since last Tuesday.” John cursed under his breath.

As if summoned by their thoughts, the detective inspector himself ran up the stairs and burst into their kitchen. John just stared in shock.

“A case?” Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“Double homicide in Bow.”

“And? You wouldn’t be here unless it was unusual, and you wouldn’t be here in person unless it was important.”

“Actually I was in the neighbourhood when I got the call. Though I’d give you a ride.”

“Much appreciated,” John stood and grabbed his jacket, “Coming Sherlock?”

“Tell me the facts.” The tall man flicked his fingers at Lestrade arrogantly as they headed downstairs.

“Two girls, arranged in some kind of ritual sacrifice from what I’ve heard, both teenagers, both blonde.”

“God!” John’s face curled up in horror as Sherlock beamed.

“Sounds promising!”

They tore across London in the D.I’s car, siren wailing. The crime scene was in the basement of a dingy block of flats that looked like they should be condemned. The walls had been hastily painted black, and the concrete floor covered in an almost checkerboard pattern, slightly askew. The girls themselves were propped against each other on a mock-stone altar in black veils, their black dresses ripped open from neck to knees. Their bodies were similarly sliced, John pressing a hand to his nose as the heavy scent of entrails hit him.

“What kind of sicko arranged this?” he coughed out.

Sherlock strode into the space, spinning to take everything in before leaning over the girls for a better look.

“Sicko might not be the right word. It’s extreme yes, but very textbook. There’s nothing creative or masterful about the execution, just a sense of following the steps – and clumsily at that. No, our killer lacks any of the finesse of a true psychopath nor the rage of someone who’s snapped. This is planned but imperfectly so and it’s rudimentary. Completely unoriginal.”

Donovan shot him a glare. “I’m sure their families will be glad to know you think it was a poor showing.”

Sherlock ignored her, peering in to examine something caught in the folds of fabric pooling over the altar. His phone buzzed and he drew it out of his pocket without thinking, glancing at the name. He stopped, breath catching in his throat.

“Sherlock?” John asked, already sure who the message was from and panicking over how to keep Sherlock on task. If freshly butchered corpses couldn’t keep him away from Moriarty then he might as well give up.

“Sorry, something’s come up.” Sherlock turned, heading back for the stairs.

“Wait, that’s it? I’m supposed to look for some mediocre cult member or devil worshipper?” Lestrade asked.

John scanned the room for something, anything that would suck Sherlock in. He took a closer look at the girls and found it.

“It’s alright Lestrade, he’ll just miss out.”

“Miss out on what?” Sherlock stopped.

“Well the incisions. They’re sloppy, like you said. But the pancreas has been removed in each by a trained surgeon.”

“You’re sure?” he hesitated, looking at his phone again.

“Of course. Why would a cult be interested in the pancreas, when they’ve got a whole mountain of other more exciting organs to choose from?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Possible drug or medicinal purposes...implies the ritual set up is a cover for some kind of operation.”

“Who knows? But something’s come up. We should be fine without you. I can fill you in later.”

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and John smiled internally. Despite the thick doubt on the detective’s face, he was already turning away from the stairs.

 

From the crime scene they went to St Bart’s to check for any other mysteriously missing pancreas patients while Lestrade did a full background check on the girls. Sherlock’s phone only went off again once in the cab and he didn’t check it, just jiggled his leg nervously. Lestrade sent them back to Baker Street to wait for more information and John was worried the second they got through the door Sherlock would turn around and go to Moriarty instead. But the detective led the way upstairs, nattering to himself about _tongs_ and illegal human organ transplants.

“Want me to order in?” John hung up his coat.

There was no answer.

“Sherlock?” The doctor walked into the kitchen with a frown.

“Hello Johnny. Have a seat.”

Moriarty’s polished tones did nothing to conceal his anger as he regarded Sherlock, already sitting across the table. John took the seat between them, braced for anything, no matter how pointless an attack seemed.

“You didn’t answer my calls, Sherly. What was so important?”

Sherlock looked visibly sick, face pale as he shrugged. “I had a case.”

“You’ve never let that get in the way before. Poor Mycroft had to beg John for help to find the Bruce-Partington plans because you were too busy with me.”

“Careful, Moriarty. You’re starting to sound desperate.” John joked.

The cold glare was not unexpected, but it still made his leg twitch with the old imagined injury.

“Sherlock, you’ve made me wait. And that makes me unhappy. But because I’m so good to you, I’m going to give you a choice.”

“Sherlock, don’t – you don’t have to play this game with him.” John pleaded.

“Either I can go away for a proportionate amount of time – let’s say a month for every hour you didn’t respond – or you can show Dr Watson here what the message said.”

Sherlock had blanched at the word month but John could see there was some internal battle between the two options. They’d gotten to the crime scene around one and it was now six. Five hours, five months. It was a long time. Six months had almost killed Sherlock and John never wanted a repeat of that. He knew it was the last thing Sherlock wanted either. But still there was a lull without a reply. Moriarty just watched Sherlock closely, the two men staring at each other while John tried to figure out what about the message could have been so terrible Sherlock would consider taking the other path. That worried him more than Moriarty’s presence here.

“Fine. Your intention is to force me to reveal the true nature of our encounters to him, then fine. I’ll tell him. But I won’t show him the message.”

“Awww, that’s no fun Sherly!” Moriarty pouted like a spoiled child, “It’s certainly not what I asked.”

Sherlock’s gaze turned almost pleading but Moriarty just smirked.

“You know, I hear the Bahamas are nice this time of year. Maybe Santiago...Fiji. They’re always good for some political unrest.”

 

Sherlock reached into his pocket for his phone. He sorted through his messages until he found the one from Jim and placed it on the table, sliding it over to John with an air of defeat. The doctor didn’t want to read it, didn’t want Moriarty to win, but he was curious. He picked it up.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Read it out.” Moriarty grinned.

John shot him a look but obeyed. “Hello sexy, meet you at the usual for a nooner?”

“I know, I know, it was already one when I sent it so ‘nooner’ isn’t technically correct.” Jim made the air quotes with a sheepish wrinkle of his nose.

“Why would I care about this message?” John frowned, “I know you’ve been hanging out in some strange capacity.”

“There’s an attachment.” Sherlock said flatly.

John glanced at him but he was staring at Moriarty. He had Jim’s full attention though as he opened the file.

“Oh god.” He immediately threw the phone down and pushed it away.

“He is a sight, isn’t he? Our Sherly with his hair all wild and those long, pale limbs covered in lots of lovely bodily fluids.”

“What-where did you get that?” he demanded.

“Well I took it, silly. How do you put up with his dull little brain?” Moriarty laughed, shaking his head at Sherlock.

“And what were the two of you doing that required Sherlock to be naked in your bed?”

The question was directed at Sherlock, not Moriarty, but he felt the need to comment anyway.

“Surely you’re not that slow _Dr_ Watson.”

Sherlock didn’t look as he answered. “We have sex sometimes.”

“Sometimes? You? Have sex?”

“I like that Sherlock having sex is what concerns you, not that it’s with me.”

“Everything he does with you concerns me, but this is just...incredible.”

“It is a bit. Sherlock giving up the gift of his virtue to the big bad wolf. Doesn’t it just make you hot thinking about it?” Moriarty bit his lip and fluttered his lashes at Sherlock.

“Why?”

“He asked and I didn’t want to disappoint,” Sherlock said truthfully, “And it was of some interest.”

“Should see him Johnny, every little thought written over his face. That cool, calm, enigmatic thing gets blown away in the first gust.”

“Would you shut up!” John yelled, “Sherlock, please, you can’t be doing this with him. He’s taking advantage of you.”

“He’s never forced me to do anything. The experience is always mutually pleasurable.” Sherlock shrugged.

“That’s right. Daddy just wants to make you happy.” Moriarty cooed over the table.

He started as John’s palm struck the surface. “Enough! You can dress it up however you like, but you’re blackmailing him into sex. You’re as bad as any ordinary rapist.”

Moriarty just smiled. “What do you want me to do, Johnny? Leave? Because that’s not what Sherlock wants. I’m not the one standing in his way right now.”

 

He stood and straightened his jacket, glancing between the two men as if waiting for instructions. The smug act made John want to lunge at him, but he knew there were probably red sights lined up on him right now. He cleared his throat.

“Can I speak to Sherlock for a moment? Then you two can sort it out for yourselves and I never want to hear another word about it.”

“Very well. Sherly, I shall be in your room.”

He flounced out and John stared at his best friend. Sherlock was turning the phone over and over in his hands, eyes glued to the table.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Sherlock, he’s got you dancing at the end of his leash. You’re sleeping with him – you, Sherlock Holmes, having sex. It’s a big deal.”

“It’s not really. I never wasted any time on it before, but there is an enjoyable aspect.”

“You’re literally only doing it to keep him. Ignoring how messed up that is for a minute, have you considered why he’s making you do it?”

“He made some half-arsed excuse about seeing me outside my comfort zone, but I think it’s just to prove he can.”

John rested his face in his hands. “This is the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard. It’s like you’re dating but with no emotion and the sex is just a game. So actually, it’s exactly like a relationship would be between the two of you. _Oh my god_ you’re dating Moriarty.”

Sherlock looked at the kitchen cabinets speculatively. “Perhaps. I don’t have enough experience with that sort of thing to make a conclusion.”

“I knew you admired him, and he’s obviously interested by you, but Sherlock seriously! You can’t...like Jim Moriarty. He’s a terrible person.”

“Lots of people date terrible people.”

“I think we can agree he’s a little bit worse.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know John. I don’t know what we are. I know I’m being manipulated but as you’ve seen, I honestly cannot live without him. So I’m going to go to my room and do whatever he asks, and it’s probably not going to be the last time.”

“I can’t stand by and let you do this. Please don’t ask me to watch him hurt you, Sherlock.”

“He’s not.”

“Yet.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just took his phone and left the kitchen. John heard the bedroom door close and Moriarty’s lyrical voice. He didn’t want to hear this, couldn’t bear to listen to the bedsprings squeaking and the shouts and moans. He knew Moriarty was likely to make more of a show just to piss him off. John grabbed his jacket and went downstairs, determined to drink until he couldn’t walk.

 

“Very good, Sherlock. For a moment there I thought you might not show him after all.”

Moriarty was already on the bed, shoes and socks off, jacket carefully hung behind the door with his tie. Sherlock started undressing.

“What was the point of that display? You want to show me you can ruin my relationships on a whim? Because you may have underestimated John’s loyalty.”

“Yes, he is rather touching isn’t he? So concerned about you. Like a dog whimpering at his master.”

“He’s no more my pet than I am yours.”

“Wrong on both counts, Sherly. Honestly I think I did it just to watch him look so helpless.”

Sherlock stopped in the middle of unbuttoning his cuffs. “That’s all? No other motive for wanting him to know about our arrangement?”

“Why would you ask?” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed.

“He said something interesting.”

“I doubt it.”

“He said this is exactly what we would be like if we were trying to date.”

Jim laughed. “Really? You think I’d shag you for two days and then ignore you for weeks?”

“No, I think you’d try to wine and dine me to rub it in Mycroft’s nose and because you love your luxury, and then shag me for two days before getting distracted for weeks.”

Jim raised a brow in surprise and Sherlock continued undressing. He was down to his underwear by the time Moriarty replied.

“People like us don’t do anything as mundane as date, Sherlock.”

“Only it wouldn’t be mundane for us, would it?”

“Are you saying that’s what you want Sherly? Got a crush on me? Was it the sex? I knew it was too much for you to handle.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s nowhere near as good as your conversation.”

“Is anything, really? You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do I want us to be dating, that was it yes? Dating implies emotion. Sentiment I think both of us lack.”

“Not necessarily. You care about your little average people. I love sensation, feeling. You could say we’re already crazy about each other.”

“And the tiny hindrance of you being determined to kill me?”

“Can easily be postponed if you keep being this stimulating. I have to admit I’m interested now,” Moriarty sat up, unbuttoning his shirt, “What would Sherlock Holmes’ idea of a good boyfriend be?”

“I’d compose for you. Send you new chemicals...suck you off under the table at restaurants to try and make you lose control of that dignified exterior.”

“Look at you, been having sex for five minutes and already a slut.”

 

Sherlock took a step that closed the gap between them and threw Moriarty back onto the mattress. He attacked the rest of the buttons and ripped his shirt open, running warm hands over Jim’s bare chest as he bent down to lock lips. The kiss danced along the edge of painful as they nipped at each other, tongues firmly entwined. Sherlock’s hands stayed busy, undoing Jim’s pants and sliding inside to grasp his hard-on.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Since you showed John the message. It’s one of my favourite pictures.”

Sherlock kissed him again, kneading at the silk-covered bulge until Jim moaned at the uncomfortable tightness. He pushed Sherlock off and stripped himself, turning on the other man’s pants until they were both squirming naked on the mattress again. Sherlock grabbed a bottle of lube from his bedside table and Moriarty chuckled.

“Buy that for me?”

“It’s for my equipment, actually. Stops the joints stiffening up when it’s cold without contaminating any specimens.” Sherlock said matter-of-fact. He squeezed a dollop onto his fingers and started slicking them up before leaning over Moriarty.

The smaller man instantly stiffened and thrust his hands against Sherlock’s chest. “No. Not in a million years.”

“Yes, _James_ , because we’re equal. I may need you, but you need me just as much. I know what it’s like, always waiting for an end to the boredom. You seem to do better, talking big about how you let yourself feel and enjoy the little things. But underneath we both know that without me, James, you’d be lost.”

“There are other people to play with.” He said quietly.

“Puppets to dance to your tune, you mean. No one challenges you like me. Not even Mycroft. His motives are always too obvious but I, I have potential for darkness that draws you in. You and I are the same.”

“Does this mean you want to date?” Jim giggled.

“It means I’m going to have you equally.”

He was sure Moriarty would accept. The truth of it rang through his bones, resonated with his own need, and he wasn’t surprised when the hands on his chest softened and Jim spread his legs.

“Very well then. Have me.”

 

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him as he circled his slick fingers around Jim’s entrance. He hissed at the cold gel and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders like he wanted to stop him again. But the detective kept going, easing one fingertip into the criminal. He pushed gently, mouth latched to Jim’s chest as he prodded and stretched the tight channel. Sherlock added a second finger, deeper this time, curling up against Moriarty’s walls. He watched the genius’ face carefully.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. I want to hear every thought in your head.”

“Right now I’m grateful I trained you so well. And now I’m thinking if you keep it up, there won’t be many thoughts to tell.” Jim smirked.

Sherlock added another finger and Moriarty groaned, arching up towards the touch.

“How long have you known about me?” Sherlock demanded as his blunt fingertips pressed against Jim’s prostate.

“Years. Since you came out of rehab.”

“And did you expect this?”

Jim laughed breathlessly. “Never. It’s not nice to tease, Sherlock.”

“It’s not enough. I’ll hurt you.”

“Promise?”

He caught Sherlock’s lips in a rough, biting kiss. The brunette fumbled for the lubricant and tipped more into his palm, running the liquid over his erection with a barely audible moan. Jim tapped his feet against Sherlock’s hips impatiently and wriggled against the fingers still scissoring inside him. They were quickly removed though and replaced with something bigger, Sherlock’s swollen head forcing the way open at an agonising pace. Jim clenched his teeth and squeezed Sherlock’s arms, pushing down on the pain and trying to relax his muscles. His breathing was harsh and ragged but his eyes gleamed with lust. Sherlock slowly wormed his way in to the hilt, stomachs pressed together as he struggled to keep control of himself. Jim was so tight, so hot, burning Sherlock’s insides. They lay there for a moment, each working to get himself together. Then Sherlock locked his arms around Jim and rolled, carrying the smaller man until he sat on top.

“Now, show me what you want.”

“My kinky darling, you are full of surprises today!”

Sherlock silenced him by tugging him down by the neck until their lips met. His free hand kneaded Jim’s thigh encouragingly, until finally the Irishman began to lift himself carefully up and down Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close but he forced them open, fixing his gaze on the slight open-mouthed criminal’s face.

“You really are gorgeous, you know that?” Jim cooed.

Sherlock clutched at his hips, urging him on. Moriarty threw his head back and rocked.

 

There was something here Sherlock hadn’t felt the other times. Their sex had always felt like he was doing Jim a service – a mutually enjoyable one, yes, but Sherlock never felt the desire for his own sake. Now he knew this was possible, looking up into the thickened gaze of the great criminal, and he wanted it again before they’d even finished. Finally after all the years of shying away from anything sexual, from Irene’s advances and Molly’s sweet hints and every other girl who’d taken a fancy to him, Sherlock Holmes understood lust as more than just a chemical impulse. He wanted Jim in every possible way until they were both so worn down they couldn’t move. He wanted to claim him and keep him and be the only one to touch him ever again. It wasn’t rational and it wasn’t sentimental, it was just what Sherlock instinctually felt and for the first time he listened.

Jim was moving faster now, riding him into the comfy mattress with his hands clutching at Sherlock’s chest. Their flesh slapped together like a weak form of applause, and Sherlock might have found it sort of funny if not for the more distracting aspects. He closed his hand around Moriarty’s bobbing prick, shiny pre-cum quickly coating his hand as he stroked the mastermind. Jim sped up even more and Sherlock ground against him, eyes dropping shut despite his best efforts as he fell over the edge with a strangled soft cry. The criminal dug his nails into Sherlock’s chest and dragged them down, thrusting into the fading grip on his cock until Sherlock revived enough to pay him the proper attention, jerking the other man until he sprayed his release over the detective’s chest. Jim moaned exquisitely and lifted himself, flopping down onto the mattress half on top of Sherlock.

“Well that was exhilarating.”

“Rather.” Sherlock said dreamily.

“Shall we bother cleaning up or is this going to be something that continues for another two days?”

“Well, maybe not two days, but I’m definitely not letting you leave yet.”

Moriarty nodded sleepily. “I think I can clear my schedule.”

 

By dawn they were almost at the point Sherlock had hoped for, completely spent and aching. They lay together staring at the ceiling, too tired to move.

“Thanks for the bed, by the way. Turned out to be quite handy.”

“You are extraordinarily welcome.”

The criminal groaned unhappily as his muscles complained but sat up anyway. He reached for his underwear and Sherlock frowned.

“Things to do?”

“Unfortunately, but I don’t think you and I would achieve anything but sleep if I stayed anyway. Don’t fret. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve recovered.”

He nodded. “I’ve got a case I should finish.”

“Anything exciting?” Moriarty teased.

“I’m fairly sure it’s not one of yours.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You never know,” Jim shrugged as he finished fastening his shirt and picked up his trousers, “I’ve got my finger in almost every pie.”

“Would you tell me if it was you?”

Jim frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

Jim finished dressing and grabbed his shoes but didn’t put them on. He already had his phone out to summon his driver as he bent down and kissed Sherlock fiercely.

“Don’t forget that you’re mine, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Only as long as you’re mine.”

Moriarty nodded and left the room.

*****

He found John in a deserted pub, swaying on his stool beside the daytime regulars. Moriarty clapped a hand to his shoulder. “You’re still awake, Johnny! I thought you’d be face down in a gutter by now.”

The bartender looked up, a tad exasperated. “He’ll be there soon enough.”

“Well I’m going to take him off your hands, so no need to worry.”

“I’m not going anywhere with youuuuuuuuu!” John pointed accusingly.

“Yes, you are. Sherlock won’t even think to check on you, so either come with me and I’ll get you home or enjoy a nice nap in an alley somewhere.”

“I could get a cab.” John argued, shaking off Moriarty’s hold.

“You could try but I’m guessing you’ve drunk all your cash. Don’t be even more of an idiot than you already are.”

“Hey! I’m not-”

He never got to explain what he wasn’t, because John promptly passed out with his head on the bar. Moriarty grinned pleasantly at the bartender and pulled out his phone. Within thirty seconds a tall, muscular man in a cheap suit came in and hauled Watson over his shoulder.

“Sorry to trouble you. I’m sure he’ll have a smashing headache later.” Jim smiled and followed them out.

 

The first thing John realised was that he must be dead, because no living person could survive this much pain. But his treacherous eyes disproved him by opening on an actual, real room with actual, real curtains thankfully drawn against the harsh daylight. His mouth felt fuzzy and disgusting and his stomach felt worse.

“There’s water and aspirin on the table beside you, and we can order room service when you feel up to it.”

He sat up and groaned, wishing he hadn’t. Moriarty sat beside the bed, legs crossed and one foot tapping as he watched John.

“Where am I?”

“Hotel. I wanted to have a little chat before I send you home.”

“Really. Did you happen to knock me unconscious to get it?”

“No dear boy, you did that allll yourself.”

John glared at him blearily and took the aspirin, washing it down his dry throat with an entire glass of water. He put it back down and Moriarty helpfully leaned forward to refill it, making him more suspicious.

“Why are you taking care of me?”

“Sherlock and I have come to a new agreement. One you may or may not be more pleased with. And while I couldn’t give a toss for your opinion, it matters to him. Dear sweet deluded thing.”

“What kind of agreement?”

“We are, for want of a better term, going steady.”

John just stared. “I’m not sure I understood you, but that might be the blistering hangover. You’re what?”

“Dating. It was his idea, inspired by something you said apparently. Anyway, it means things have changed. You thought I was taking advantage of Sherlock.”

“Because you were.”

“Perhaps. But now we are – I am persuaded – equal. I cannot hurt him without hurting myself. It was surprising, actually, how adamant he was on the whole thing. Sherly can be so stubborn sometimes.”

“I’m aware. Why are you telling me this? Do you expect my blessing or something?”

“I’m making you a promise, John Watson. I’m going to take care of Sherlock. He’ll be more protected than he is now. I’ll cater to his every caprice and make sure no one even looks at him wrong. And I’ll do it for as long as I can. Do you doubt me?”

John considered it for a moment. “Well, it’s hard to be sure with this headache, but...no. I think you mean it. Doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea.”

“But Sherlock does, and you want him to be happy.”

“Of course.”

“So that’s it then. The new state of things. Sherlock and I are an item, and you need to get used to it.”

John looked extremely gloomy about it but he just sighed. “You’re not going to come to things are you? Like, Christmas with Molly and the others or double dates with Lestrade and his wife?”

“I should think not. Now, you can stay as long as you like. Everything’s paid for, so sleep some more and then order something to eat. I got you clothes in your size if you want to wash up. And when you’re ready to go home there’ll be a car waiting if you call the concierge.”

“Why bother with all this?” John frowned.

“Why not?” Moriarty shrugged and walked out.

 

Sherlock was playing when John dragged himself in, something cheery he hadn’t heard before. It had seemingly random, ominous dark notes that somehow made the whole thing work.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock didn’t even pause. “It’s for Jim. Do you like it?”

“Certainly fitting.”

Sherlock took a second look. “Out all night?”

“Would you have even noticed I wasn’t here? I heard you and ‘Jim’ were having a talk.”

“Yes. We straightened it out.” Sherlock smiled.

“Are you really happy, Sherlock? This is definitely what you want?”

“Yes.”

“And you trust him?”

“No. I trust him to play by certain rules but James’ key trait is his unpredictability. It’s why I’m interested after all. But as long as I know I can’t trust him, it doesn’t matter.”

John looked away. “I can’t even pretend to understand it, but if it’s what you want you should know there will be objections.”

“Lestrade, obviously, though he doesn’t need to know right away. Mycroft won’t even bat an eye.”

He finished his composition and smiled, flourishing his bow at John.

“But do _you_ object?”

Out of the hundred responses John could have given, he said the one that surprised himself. “No. Be happy, Sherlock. That’s all I want.”

The detective beamed and started playing something else, a jig John recognised. He smiled to himself and headed upstairs with a lighter heart.


	4. The Perfect Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little post-script

John knocked on Sherlock’s door, though it was more than the genius deserved since he never bothered to knock.

“Right, I’m off. You’re staying in?”

“Presumably. I haven’t heard from Jim.”

John made a face but only for a second. “Well I hope he calls.”

“Have fun with...”

“Mary.”

“Mary.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Watson left and Sherlock went back to reading. He’d found it much easier lately to be still and quiet if he was ploughing through the contents of Moriarty’s library. He couldn’t handle fiction but he found the older scientific texts amusing in their ignorance.

John had been gone about an hour when Sherlock’s phone rang. The dulcet tones of Bach announced his caller before he’d even read the screen.

“I didn’t think you’d call.”

“Sorry, Sherly. My meeting ran over an extra day. I just landed at Heathrow.”

“Shall I meet you?”

“I’ve already made reservations, my sweet. There’ll be a car outside in twenty.”

The line went dead and Sherlock grinned. He quickly grabbed a deep purple shirt that he knew went particularly well with his skin and a dark grey suit. Fuss as he might with his curls, they never sat any neater, so he didn’t bother. He sent a quick message to John explaining he wouldn’t be home and hurried downstairs.

“Oh! Sherlock, you look nice dear.”

“Thank you Mrs Hudson.” He managed a sincere smile.

“Off to see your chap?” she rested her washing on her good hip.

He kissed her cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

She tittered and shoved him away, heading into her flat. By the time Sherlock stepped outside a navy blue car was waiting and he climbed into the back without hesitation.

“Evening Mr Holmes.”

“Evening.”

 

The driver stopped outside a small hotel on the other side of town, closer to the airport. Sherlock gave him a nod as he pulled away and headed inside, glancing around the lobby until he saw the restaurant.

“Good evening sir, do you have a reservation?” the maître d’ smiled.

“Holmes, table for two.”

“Right this way sir.”

He followed the man through the small but classically furnished room. Jim always made the reservations, and always in Sherlock’s name, more to protect them from Moriarty’s enemies than Mycroft. But he also always picked charming little restaurants with a fabulous wine list and mouth-watering dessert so Sherlock never complained. He was shown to his seat and handed a menu.

“Anything to start with, sir?”

“The pork roulade with two forks and a bottle of red.”

“Anything in particular, sir?”

Sherlock scanned the man and smiled confidently. “Surprise me.”

He looked taken aback but nodded and hurried away. Sherlock wasn’t worried – he already knew which wine it would be.

 

The starter had just touched the table when Jim arrived.

“Apologies. The traffic was murder.” He blew Sherlock a kiss as he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down.

“I ordered.”

“I can see that. And a fine choice, Sherly. The ‘54?”

“Of course. Did you see his wedding ring?” Sherlock smirked.

They both took up their forks and started in.

“How was the trip?”

“Productive. We had a few tense moments but you know Moran – he hasn’t been outgunned yet.”

Sherlock felt a second’s worry before brushing it off. His life was every bit as dangerous as Jim’s sometimes, so why nitpick?

“And I brought you back a little souvenir.” He reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a tiny model of the Taj Mahal.

“I’ll add it to my collection.” Sherlock pursed his lips.

“How’s Johnny?”

“Out with Mary again.”

“He’s going to marry her, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s likely, yes.”

“And what will you do then, Sherlock?”

“Find a new flatmate.”

“You could always let me pay for Baker Street.” Moriarty’s usual cheer turned serious for a moment.

“Oh Mycroft would just love that,” Sherlock snorted, “Very good for his image.”

“All the more reason to do it, I say.” Jim smirked.

“Perhaps. Are you ready for mains?”

Jim bit the corner of his lip, laughter in his eyes. “Beyond ready, honey.”

 

The wine went with them in the lift. Moriarty had the penthouse, obviously, since the hotels were usually more forgiving of any damage when they felt sure it could be paid for. The second the door closed behind them, Sherlock went to the windows and closed all the curtains while Jim found a pair of wine glasses and poured for them both.

“What shall we toast to tonight?”

Sherlock came back over, shedding his jacket. “How about...Molly.”

“Molly?” Jim frowned.

“Without whom I might never have seen your face.”

“Oh you’d have seen it Sherlock. I would have found a way into your life regardless. To Molly then.”

They clinked glasses and took a long sip. Sherlock set his down on the coffee table and kicked off his shoes.

“That’s enough conversation for now I think.”

Moriarty paused in taking another sip. “Oh I do like you with that feisty look in your eye. Are you going to ravish me, Mr Holmes?”

“If you’ll stop talking and let me.”

Jim threw his glass and it shattered on the dark green carpet like a car accident, tiny fragments glinting in a spreading pool of blood red. Sherlock dragged him across the gap between them, his lips fastened hard to Jim’s as he wrenched off the Westwood jacket and tie. His own shirt was being hastily unbuttoned, until Jim lost patience and ripped the last few off. Sherlock stripped away his belt and dragged his shirt up, sliding his hands around Jim’s waist to meet in the small of his back.

“We should move this to the bedroom before one of us gets a sliver in his foot, or somewhere worse.”

“Well whose idea was it to break the glass?” Sherlock griped, but he walked backwards until they almost fell into the sunken pit of the bed. The detective undid his pants and dropped them to the floor, pushing Jim back onto the mattress to do the same for the Irishman. Then he was crawling over Moriarty, kisses littered along his forearms as Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs and tugged the shirt over his head.

“You are a menace to my wardrobe.”

“Do you care?”

“Not in the slightest.”

 

Sherlock smiled against his lips and reached blindly into the bedside table. It was already stocked, Jim’s toiletry bag open in the drawer, and he grabbed the lube. He quickly slicked himself up and moved to touch Jim’s wobbling hard-on, but the smaller man batted him away.

“Get on with it, lover. I’ve been waiting all day.”

Sherlock’s grin was wolf-like as he coated his fingers and thrust one into Jim. He’d barely pushed it in to the knuckle before he added a second, pumping furiously to stretch out the architect enough to add the third. Moriarty was attacking his neck now, the long pale column covered in fast fading red bites and more resilient purple bruises. Sherlock had three fingers buried deep within him now, turning his hand to properly prepare James.

“Sherly...”

He drew out his fingers and in the same moment lunged forward, sinking into Moriarty’s passage with a yell. The criminal wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s back and tugged, pulling him closer so they were sandwiched together. Sherlock waited until his mind had cleared and then braced his palms on the bed, thrusting his hips. Jim moaned and wriggled, tilting himself up towards the punishing movement, scratching Sherlock’s scalp as he twisted his fingers in the detective’s hair.

“God, how long has it been?”

“Eight days.” Sherlock breathed.

“Then eight days is too long. Remind me to send a lackey to these meetings in future.”

Sherlock just grunted, driving Jim into the mattress as his thighs pounded down on the smaller man. Moriarty reached down and gripped himself loosely, shuffling over his weeping tip as he slammed back against Sherlock. Too soon Sherlock felt the growing tidal wave of pleasure, and he reached down and put his hand over James’ and forced him to speed up. With a savage thrust Sherlock came, mouth dropping open in a wavering cry. Jim licked his lips and squeezed his legs around Sherlock, flexing his body until the hand on his prick tightened and his climax hit him.

 

Their rocking slowed and then stopped. Jim’s legs fell limply onto the bed and Sherlock rolled off him.

“Eight days is too long.” Jim repeated.

“Dessert?”

“Yes please, my dear.”

Sherlock dragged himself over to the phone and dialled room service. After some effort, Jim plodded into the ensuite to rinse off his chest.

“Hello? Room 1004, can we get a hot fudge double sundae and a chocolate pudding. No, nothing else.”

Sherlock hung up and forced his floppy legs to carry him to the coffee table. He retrieved the wine bottle and walked lamely back to bed, quickly joined by James.

“How barbaric.” Jim opened his mouth wide in mock-outrage as Sherlock tipped the bottle to his lips.

“Well if someone would stop going Attila the Hun on the glasses, we could have nice things.”

“What can I say? I like a little drama.”

The last bit was in an obnoxious American accent and Sherlock swatted at his chest in reproach before offering the bottle.

“You are the most melodramatic person I have ever met.”

“Oh don’t be silly. You’ve met Mycroft.”

They both laughed. There was a knock and Jim groaned.

“Urgh. You get it.”

“Can’t. You’ve exhausted me.”

“I should hope not! The night’s young.”

There was a second knock, no louder than the first but still persistent.

“Pleeeeease Sherly. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” he raised a brow.

“You ordered a sundae, didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted up at the knowing glance Jim gave his groin. “Be right back.”


End file.
